You Tried Hiding Another You
by mssmithlove
Summary: It's John Watson's first year at University, which can be difficult and confusing when he's been denying his true self his entire life… and when he meets an equally young and very attractive Sherlock Holmes. AU Uni life!
1. Chapter 1

****I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it. Okay so this is my first Sherlock fic, it's an AU set during John's first year at Uni where he first meets Sherlock. Rated M for a reason! I will try to give warnings at the beginning of each chapter if anything particularly graphic is coming (i.e abuse, sex, torture, ect.) First chapter is relatively tame, with the exception of profanity and the alluding to M/M sex. Please review and enjoy!****

John yanked at the collar of his shirt for the ninth time that evening, grimacing at the uncomfortable feeling of the tie wrapped snuggly around his neck.

"This is stupid," he muttered. "I already got in to this school, why do I have to attend this crap dressed like this? Who exactly am I supposed to be impressing?" He gave another sharp pull. "This is stupid."

"You already said that," Mike murmured softly next to him.

John's grumbles weren't meant as a true conversation starter but when his best friend of ten years didn't chide him for being an arse, John glanced over at him.

Mike had an odd look on his face that John couldn't quite decipher. His mouth was hanging open slightly and his eyes seemed to be glossed over. His brow was knitted together and he was staring. Staring at John.

"Mike?" he asked bemused, "You alright?"

Mike seemed to snap out of his haze at John's words, shaking his head once and tried to force a laugh, dropping his gaze to the floor. "Yeah. Yeah, fine. Why?"

John eyed him for a moment then scanned the crowd before them, watching as small groups of excited young adults chatted animatedly to each other, shaking hands and smiling.

John glowered at the enthusiasm.

"Dunno," he said irritably to his friend, "I'm bitching about being at this sodding party and you don't have a comment to make about how I need to cheer up and enjoy myself? That's been your anthem for the past week."

"Huh. Guess not," was Mike's only reply as he kicked at something imaginary on the carpet.

John glanced at him again but dropped the conversation, feeling his patience wearing thin. Mike had been pushy about attending this event, saying they needed to make new friends and have some fun. They only knew a handful of people in London, and Mike had decided he needed to blossom into the social butterfly of the city as he had been in high school. John was expected to participate in this as his sidekick.

John had fought tooth and nail to get out of it.

They'd moved to university together exactly seven days ago and were currently attending a soiree for all new students to meet and socialize. Some professors were also expected to be in attendance and the flyer they'd received had encouraged them to come with questions and topics to discuss with their new classmates and teachers, and to 'dress to impress.' Hence the noose around his neck.

John had not prepared any questions or topics.

John had barely agreed to put on the tie that was now trying to strangle him.

Because John had other things on his mind.

Under normal circumstances, this little gathering would have been quite nice. John would have put on his best smile, stuck out his hand willingly and had a laugh ready for any joke, good or bad. He would have been his pleasant, kind, borderline naïve self and been perfectly happy with that.

But tonight, John wanted to be alone with his thoughts. Tonight, for the last night before his long career as a doctor began, John wanted to sit in his room, indulge his pathetic feelings and sulk.

"Maybe we should get a drink?" Mike squeaked beside him, and again John became annoyed. His normally boisterous, friendly, loud, borderline obnoxious best friend was acting fucking bizarre.

"Mate, _you_ were the one that wanted us to come to this fucking thing. Why aren't you out there, being ever so interesting and attracting the many friends you plan on obtaining for us?"

Mike looked a little stunned and John's irritation subsided to utter confusion.

"Seriously, Mike, what is your deal tonight? You're being so fucking weird."

Mike's eyes were the size of saucers now and John frowned. When he didn't respond, John shook his head. "Well, I suppose I will go grab that drink then." He started walking away and glancing around over the heads of the crowd for the bar. "Beat's standing around in awkward silence," he mumbled to himself.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he swiveled his head from side to side, trying to find the best way through the sea of people to get to the drinks on the other side of the room. He batted down the bubble of unreasonable annoyance at the situation. It wasn't like these people purposefully joined together to keep him from the bar but for some reason, that's exactly the way it felt. He glared at the room as a whole.

Clearly, John was in a very poor mood.

He closed his eyes for a moment; trying to breath past the irrational irritation he felt with essentially everyone he laid eyes on. It was no one's fault that his mind was begging to swallow him up into self-pity. Mike was only trying to help get his mind off what had happened.

John stifled a humorless laugh at that last thought. He absolutely could not classify what had happened as an event. _Nothing_ had happened. That was the problem. Three long months and absolutely nothing had come of it.

John ran a hand down his face and opened his eyes again, determined to will himself into a better mood.

His breath caught in his throat at the sight before him.

The first thing he saw were cheekbones. Razor-sharp, pale cheekbones that jutted out perfectly below silver eyes. Eyes like John had never seen before. Eyes that seemed to be scanning every thing, every person, every moment in the room and knowing. Knowing what exactly, John couldn't be sure. What he was sure about was those eyes knew everything there was to know about this room and everyone in it.

John bit the inside of his lip as his gaze traveled above those eyes to a mess of dark curls tumbling in waves across that equally pale forehead. Curls that looked soft and wild all at once. Curls that would feel so damn good running between fingers. The head those curls belonged to was draped back against the wall along with the slender, suit-clad back of the tall body, hands shoved into tailored pockets and legs crossed at the ankle. Bored. The position of an incredibly bored person.

John's body felt frozen in place as he took in every inch of what he was seeing, jaw slightly slack and vision blurring around the edges to focus in on this single, beautiful creature. John lost himself a little as his eyes landed on the stranger's lips, bowed perfectly in the center. John licked his lips subconsciously.

And then those all-knowing, all-seeing eyes landed on John. The gaze was excruciatingly searing, focused, boring into him with great intensity. John felt bare underneath those light eyes and he bit his bottom lip, debating if he was excited or terrified.

An entirely different scenario of being bare beneath those eyes jogged through his mind lazily and John ducked his head, unable to stop the shiver that ran down his body, and knowing this new, exotic stranger would see it. He couldn't control himself under that stare. He had to look away. He had to keep moving.

John's mouth had gone very dry. Suddenly, he needed that drink very badly.

He turned his back and crept around the outside of the crowd on the opposite side of the room from the dark figure he'd been staring at.

He practically fell against the wood of the bar as he arrived, steadying himself and, oh _god,_ had he been panting? Like a bloody dog? He took a few deep breathes as though he'd just had the wind knocked out of him and tried to shake himself.

"Oi, mate, you alright?" A voice broke into his silent panic attack and John looked up to find the bartender looking at him with concern.

"Hm? Oh yes, fine…sorry…Thank you for asking. Just a little caught off guard is all…" John trailed off and looked around, still trying to gather his bearings. He glanced back up to find the bartender still looking at him.

"You sure? You look a little unsteady."

John took one deep breath, blowing it out slowly and shaking his head a bit. He blinked hard. "Yeah. Yeah I'm good," he repeated.

"Why don't you take a load off?" the bartender said, gesturing toward one of the stools.

John slumped into one of them mindlessly, his thoughts still reeling. Never had he seen someone who looked quite like that. Never had he seen someone so utterly beautiful.

Never had he reacted so strongly to a simple _glance_ in his direction. It was humiliating. And enthralling. The emotional war going on inside him over a simple stare was completely ridiculous, and John internally scolded himself.

"So what'll it be?"

John glanced back up at the man behind the bar, having almost forgotten he was there. "Sorry, just, this guy over there-" he stopped abruptly, realizing what the man was asking. His eyes widened in embarrassment. "Oh, right, uh, two beers please? Whatever's cheapest."

The man grabbed two bottles and plunked them on the counter, snapping the tops off quickly. John paid and tipped rather nicely for two beers, seeing as he was acting strangely. The bartender smiled at him.

He made his way back to Mike, careful to take the same route as he'd come and to keep his eyes on his shoes.

"Here we are then," John handed the bottle to his friend and took a sip. He chose to ignore the same odd look Mike was still giving him and stole a glance at the wall where he'd seen _him_.

To his disappointment, the wall was now vacant. John's stomach dropped a bit and he looked down at his beer, furrowing his brow.

"John," Mike's voice came from beside him, tentative and unsure. John frowned deeper.

"Yeah?"

Mike opened his mouth then closed it again. He gripped his bottle tighter and looked down at his feet. "Um-I-"

"My _word_, look at you," a deep, confident drawl came from behind John and he only just missed the relieved then curious look on Mike's face as he turned toward the voice.

John's body went absolutely still as he came face to face with the tall, dark and handsome man he'd been drooling over only a few short minutes ago. His eyes widened at the sturdy features up close, those silver eyes tinting a slight green now as the man narrowed his gaze down at John.

"Uh-er-hi-" John said stupidly, flushing immediately at his lack of a full sentence.

The dark figure smirked confidently at him, his eyelids hanging low and John felt his trousers tighten.

"Mm, just_ look_ at you," the man said again, directing his words solely to John. "All blonde hair and blue eyes?" The man reached out and ran his thumb over John's lower lip, placing his fingers softly on John's cheek. "I would love to see what you look like in the throws of an orgasm. Maybe I could borrow you for a weekend and find out for myself? And trust me, you would want to stay for the whole weekend." He tilted his head slightly. "You may not be able to walk straight for a day or two after I'm done with you." His words came out calm. And hot. So. Fucking. Hot.

John's body temperature skyrocketed, his bottom lip blazing as though he'd just been burned by the touch of this unspeakably gorgeous human being. He did everything in his power not to lean into the touch on his cheek.

"Um-I-What-"

The stranger turned his head sharply to Mike, his green eyes tinting darkly.

"Can we help you with something?" His words were biting and harsh, his eyes narrowing on the boy.

John couldn't bring himself to turn away to check on his friend. He heard him squeak out an apology and scurried off in the opposite direction. The man turned his sharp gaze back to John, his features softening for only a moment, as though he were gazing longingly to a lover.

John's heart pounded in his chest, anticipation rushing through his veins. The hair on his neck stood up as a violent shiver ran through his body.

And then those beautiful, sharp features hardened and the man dropped his hand from John's cheek. He cursed the loss of contact and panic reared its ugly head inside him, feeling the abrupt change in the atmosphere. Suddenly, he felt out of his depth.

The man loomed closer to him, murmuring as he stepped forward.

"Listen very closely, John," he said in an impossibly deeper, serious voice. John's cock twitched in his trousers and he held his breath.

"That young man, your friend, what's his name? He's your close friend, yes?"

John's head was swimming, the sudden change in the conversation throwing him off, and disappointing the hell out of him. Weren't they just talking about going back to this guy's house for a shag? A very long, dirty weekend of shagging? John wanted to go back to that. He wanted that. _God _did he want that.

But all he could do was nod.

"What's his name?"

John blinked. The man rolled his eyes and loomed impossibly closer. "John? Focus. His name. What is it?"

"M-Mike?" John stuttered. Name, his name, his friend's name… wait, what was this guy's name?

"Mike, yes, okay, well Mike was just about to proposition you. Now, you only choosing recently to be openly gay and in a new place with one familiar friend, I assume you wouldn't want that friendship to end due to an uncomfortable situation, correct?"

John could only stare back.

"An acknowledgment of understanding would be most welcome at this time, John," the stranger said impatiently.

John nodded again dumbly.

"Thank you. It's imperative you get ahead of this situation. For one, he isn't actually interested in you in a romantic or sexual way. He's curious. He's recently come to terms with the fact that he may be interested in men as well as women. I'd say within the last six months. He probably realized it shortly before you came out to him, but was terrified of the implications. Your confession or another small event may have spiraled him slightly. But now he's calmed down and his curiosity is getting the better of him. He, however, has no idea how to go about any of this. Finding a willing male to experiment with is far too complex and terrifying for his small mind to wrap around so he turns to the most comfortable and close option: his flat mate and friend who happens to be a homosexual."

John snapped his mouth shut, only just realizing it was hanging open. If this guy said the word sex in any way one more time, John was going to need to re-adjust his trousers.

And then ever so slowly, the man's words caught up with him. He stared, trying to comprehend what had just been said. The stranger stared right back, as though he was seeing John's wheels turn within his head. "I…you…how-wait Mike is… how did you know all that?"

The man's brows knitted together in confusion. "Really? That's your question? You're not shocked that Mike is bisexual or that he was about to hit on you?"

John stared for a moment longer, his brain doing it's best to catch up with the conversation. The stranger waited, straightening up in front of him and smoothing out his face to a blank stare back.

John willed himself not to drop his eyes to the man's lips.

"I can… I can talk to Mike about that later, if that is actually what is going on. I-I want to know," John heard himself saying breathlessly, "how did you know all that?"

The man cocked his head to the side.

"You're not angry," he stated, narrowing his eyes slightly.

It was John's turn to frown. "Why would I be angry?"

The man didn't answer his question. "You're genuinely curious, aren't you?"

John could only nod.

A small flash of surprise ran across the stranger's face before the calm, collected demeanor re-established itself.

"Well," he started and set his upper body slightly back on his hips as though he were settling in for the long haul. When he took a breath, so did John.

"Your friend has been staring at you all night. But not in a longing sort of way. More in a fearful, panicked way. He's not hanging on your every word or pining after you like he would be if he were actually interested. He's been deliberating, going through options of some sort in his head, trying to make a decision. Probably about what he is going to say, how he is going to phrase it. He's been leaning away from you, not toward you like he would if he were actually attracted to you. His body language would depict excitement and anticipation, a twitch of the hand toward you, a subconscious cocking of the head imagining you in some intimate way. He's considered backing out of his plan several times tonight, trying to gather up the courage to talk to several good-looking men around this party. Those men he _has_ shown attraction toward. A subconscious licking of the lips, a minute shuffle in their directions, all depicting sexual interest. But fear, as it so often does, has gotten in the way. He doesn't have the confidence to actually approach a stranger for sex. So he decided to go with his original plan; propositioning you. He's thinking he could start somewhere safe and since he knows you are a homosexual, he figured you wouldn't turn him down. Stupid, really. Gay men are not attracted to _all _men. But then again, most of the human race is inherently stupid."

John let out a shaky breath he'd been holding and the man pressed on.

"But the part I find most fascinating is that you would have let him do his experiment, John. You wouldn't have been able to say no because that's the type of friend you obviously are."

"I-I wouldn't-"

"Oh of course you would. You're very polite and obviously care about other's feelings, seeing as a total stranger has just come up to you, spouted a bunch of personal information he shouldn't know about you and your friend and you're still talking to him. You're curious, seeing as you have hardly stopped me from speaking, in fact egging me on by asking questions. And you're obviously kind, especially to your friends, as you could have left this event a long time ago after Mike started acting out of character. But you didn't because he asked you to come with him."

"Wow," John breathed.

"Also, you were overly nice to the bartender who was staring at you with sexual interest while you were clearly in distress. I'm not entirely sure how you missed that but you seem to not have noticed."

John froze in mid-lean as he found himself captivated by this little tale the man in front of him had just spun. He rocked back on his heels and stared as the mysterious man glanced over his head, seeming to have lost interest in the conversation. John couldn't let this be over. He couldn't let him lose his focus on him.

"A-and me? How did you know about me?"

Those eyes fell back to John's face and the look of smug amusement settled into his features. "How did I know you were gay, John?"

John nodded.

"Well I thought that would be fairly obvious. The way you were looking at me, of course. Mouth falling open, pupils blown wide, subconscious adjusting of trousers, eyes traveling up and down me like you'd never seen another person before. Your face was flushed but not red, so, not embarrassment, more likely arousal. You were openly staring at another male so you're not ashamed to be gay. Of course, you were embarrassed at being caught, given by the way you ducked behind the crowd. But you looked back over later, so you wanted to still look as you obviously enjoyed what you saw. You also haven't talked to a single female tonight and there are some good-looking women here, a few who have been eyeing you. You're young and obviously single, given by the event you're attending and the male companion you brought that you are clearly not in a relationship with, seeing as you bought him the cheapest beer at the bar and have hardly given him a second glance all night."

John gulped. Was he really that transparent?

"Oh, don't pull that face, John, it's very unbecoming. It was only obvious to me because I am observant. All these other idiots didn't notice a thing. I do, however, have one question I couldn't deduce on my own. I have a few theories but I'd like the actual answer."

"Oh?" was all John could manage, his palms sweating in his pockets.

"Why didn't you come over and talk to me?"

John shook his head slightly, trying to regain proper speaking abilities. "What?"

"Well, you were clearly interested. Why not take the leap, so to speak?"

_Uh,_ _because you look like that_, John wanted to say but he bit his tongue. The man's eyes narrowed.

"You've clearly come to terms with being gay… but you're still not altogether comfortable with it." The man drew out each sentence as though he were thinking out loud. "You're inexperienced given the way you keep having to stop yourself from leaning toward me, and the way your face flushes at the close proximity of someone you're attracted to… Virgins are rarely in control of their reactions to arousal." He cocked his head to the side. "You're very curious, and not afraid of a challenge, seeing as you haven't moved away from this conversation and you're about to embark on a career as a doctor. Why not attempt to start a conversation with me? Fear?" the man ventured a guess and John felt his face heat up. The man nodded once in conclusion.

"Mm. You think I'm out of your league."

It wasn't a question.

Suddenly, John wanted to run. Get out of this conversation and away from this devastatingly handsome man. But his legs wouldn't move.

"But there's something else," he continued without a response from John, his now clear, almost translucent eyes boring into John. "You're afraid of rejection..." he trailed off, as though deep in thought, "but not solely based on intimidating looks..."

John's body was rigid and he couldn't bring himself to relax. He almost hated how accurate this guy was, but what could he say? He was right on all accounts.

"Ah," the man continued. "You were recently rejected."

All the color drained from John's face.

"First crush I presume? Given by the level of humiliation you're portraying. You're a bit old for a first crush though... ah, first crush you thought there was actual potential with then?"

John stayed stock-still, biting his cheek on the inside, trying to move past embarrassment and on to indignation but couldn't seem to get there. He stared just over the shoulder of this tall stranger, unable to meet his gaze. He didn't want to admit it out loud. It was awful enough in his head.

The man leaned toward him, his features softening slightly. "Not everyone is going to say no to you, John," he said in a deep, quiet voice. "You'll have plenty more opportunities. Don't let it stop you from pursuing what you want."

John's eyes flickered to those clear eyes. Was that an invitation? John couldn't be sure. He shuffled back and forth on his feet uncomfortably, unable to throw himself out there again.

"Relax," the stranger said. "I'm not asking you to hit on me."

John's stomach swooped in disappointment but he nodded, looking back at the floor. "Sorry," he murmured.

The man snorted and John looked up. "What?"

"What on earth would you have to be sorry for?"

John's cheeks burned again and he shifted his weight to his other foot. "I-I don't... I don't know." Then John found his voice. Finally. "I mean you catch me blatantly staring at you, come over here and save me from a potentially friendship ruining mistake, and give me some sound advice. And all I've done is stare at you like a bloody moron."

"You're upset," the man said quietly, his shoulders sagging slightly as though this happens all to often.

"What, upset? No. No, I'm not upset. That was bloody brilliant," John blurted, immediately wanting to take back those words.

The man straightened up a bit.

"Brilliant?"

John nodded and the man looked as though he wanted to laugh. He pursed his lips, holding it back and John grinned.

"I mean, yeah it was intrusive and borderline humiliating for me to hear all my secrets revealed, but I don't know. It was accurate. And you were only trying to help."

The man did actually laugh this time but didn't respond. John grinned harder at the sight, lost in this man's smile. "Hey, what's your name?" The words tumbled out of his mouth and suddenly his brain snapped into place. "Wait, how did you know my name? And how did you know I want to be a doctor?" He paused for a moment, furrowing his brow. "And why did you want to help me save my friendship with Mike?" The questions were falling out of his mouth with ease now and John had to close his lips tightly yet again.

The man's eyes narrowed, still smiling and stuck out his hand. "Sherlock," he said, and without thinking, John took it.

"Nice to meet you, Sherlock," John murmured, his eyes stuck on their joined hands. A small jolt of electricity shot from his fingers straight into his bloodstream and he shivered. Sherlock dropped his hand and stuck it back into his pocket.

The smug look on the man's posh face lit John's insides on fire. He probably looked exactly like that after making someone scream his name in bed… Oh for god's sake.

And then Sherlock winked at him.

John's courage gathered at the back of his throat and he couldn't stop himself. "So, earlier, when you came over at the beginning-"

"Creating a distraction," Sherlock replied simply. "Mike wouldn't have left your side if a stranger had come up and asked you to talk alone. I needed to make him uncomfortable." He smirked slightly. "I also wanted to prove my theory right."

"What theory?"

"That Mike wasn't actually interested in you. If he had been, he would have shown signs of jealousy and possibly stayed, attempting to defend your honor and get me to back off. Instead, he seemed embarrassed and a little grateful for someone stopping the situation before he started to speak."

John's heart dropped to his stomach and he couldn't stop the disappointment from showing all over his face. "Oh," he murmured, his eyes dropping to his feet.

And then those long, elegant fingers were again placed on his face, this time underneath his chin and tilting his gaze back up. Sherlock's eyes searched his face for a moment.

He leaned forward to the side of John's head, his breath hot against the ridge of John's ear. "In truth, John," he murmured, his deep voice vibrating the blonde's insides, "I'm quite certain, at this point, you couldn't handle what I'd like to do to you."

And with that, Sherlock turned on his heel and swept out of the room in a few long, graceful strides.

John stared after him, angered by the implication that he couldn't handle something.

And turned on. Turned on as all fucking hell.

****I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it. I hope you enjoyed this first chapter! Please review and let me know your thoughts, I appreciate feedback! (Unless you absolutely hated it. Then I don't want to know. If you hated it, don't continue to read it. ;)) Cheers!****


	2. Chapter 2

****I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it. No warnings besides insight into both John and Sherlock's minds. Honestly, this story will get dirty eventually, can that be a good enough warning? Prepare for smut, M/M sex and lots of goodness in future chapters. Deal? Enjoy!****

The conversation with Mike went better then John had planned on. After the initial embarrassment, and Mike's stuttered denial, John had flown through his argument as though he'd planned every word. He found himself referring to Sherlock's words from previously, explaining that Mike wasn't actually attracted to him but to men in general and he should try experimenting with someone besides his best mate.

Every time one of Sherlock's terms came out of his mouth, he actively had to stop a smile from spreading across his face and force his thoughts back to the conversation as they were in danger of straying to filthy territory.

Mike had visibly relaxed halfway through the discussion, chuckling at how ridiculous this was, and slowly returning to his normal self; brash and fun. John grinned, feeling the weight lift from his chest. The thought of losing his closest friend made his heart hurt and he realized Sherlock had been right; he may have let Mike 'experiment' with him just to keep their friendship, knowing rejecting Mike outright if he put himself out there would be so much worse. He may have just given in.

That, however, wasn't a fact he was about to share with Mike.

"I'm sorry John, this is all just really confusing," Mike had said finally, scrubbing a hand down his face. "I feel like a right git even considering it."

"It would have been worse if you would have gotten me naked and then realized you weren't into me," John said with a cheeky grin.

Mike had actually laughed and John grinned.

Truthfully, he felt a little sorry for Mike. John had gone through the confusion phase a while ago and fully understood what he was going through. It wasn't like there was some handbook they could purchase and learn what it meant to have these feelings toward the same sex. Well, there probably was, but that would not have been safe to have in any house of the town they grew up in. Where they were from, people didn't talk about that. It wasn't presented as an option and there were no social guidelines as to what to do about it. It wasn't exactly an easy place to be gay or bisexual or bi-curious or anything besides straight.

It had been a pretty simple journey for John, looking back now. During, it had felt like an eternity of uncertainty and fear. He couldn't pinpoint exactly what day or even what year he realized it, it just sort of became clear out of the haze. He vaguely noticed how good one of his mate's looked in tight jeans or a nice fitted shirt, but he figured it was a passing thought. Just because he thought about another guy occasionally didn't make him gay.

But when he realized he quite literally never thought about girls, and had a minor panic attack when a rumor when around school that one of the more popular girls fancied him, he started becoming rather curious and equally terrified. He did some vague research online, cold sweat dripping down his temples the entire time, panicked one of his family members would walk in on him, irrationally worried that some sort of alarm would go off on his computer to announce he was looking at gay information, then promptly deleting his search history. Like everything online, it was mostly people fighting over how to know if you're gay or not and if it's right or wrong.

John didn't care about the right or wrong, he just wanted to know.

A few weeks or months later, John couldn't say, he witnessed a few older boys beating up a small, well-dressed boy, hurling gay slurs at him and cackling as he crumpled to the ground. John waited for them to disappear and then had gone to help the boy up and to the nurse. It was a cowardly thing to do, but he couldn't stop the bullies. They were bigger and meaner then shit and would have torn John to pieces. As he approached the kid, he recognized him, Andrew Randall, same year as John and very, _very_ straight. He'd seen him with his girlfriend in the hallway, sucking face like a maniac and very clearly enjoying it. If those guys were beating up straight guys, John shuddered to think what they would do to him.

Decisions were made swiftly within his head after that; he wouldn't tell his parents. He wouldn't tell his sister. He wouldn't tell anyone until he could get up and out of the shitty little town he lived in. He'd wait until he could go to university, get to a new city, and figure it out from there.

He clamped down any and all desires he had, not that any boy at school had interested him anyway, and played along with the teasing he got from not having a girlfriend. Turns out having a sister that lived out of town made for an easy lie about visiting her and hooking up with 'older girls.' His teammates had whooped and hollered at that, and John had to turn his back, feeling ashamed and a little disgusted at the thought of doing anything like that with a girl.

His guilt over hiding his true self only escalated. It wasn't like he wanted to go to a gay club and hook up with random guys. Well, maybe he did. He wasn't sure. That was the whole _point_. He wanted to have the freedom to explore this, figure out what he truly wanted, make mistakes and sort it all out. And he lived in the very last place on earth that he could do that. So, again, night after night of thinking and wishing and _longing_ to get out of his parent's dysfunctional house, John suffered in silence.

By the end of secondary school, the secret was weighing on him like lead. He was lonely and horny as hell, and was desperate to tell someone what was going on inside him. Not so they could take care of him. Not so they could shag him. Just so he could know that someone knew and he didn't need to be swallowed up by this any longer. His absentee parents were so wrapped up in their own drama they were immediately out of the question and for some reason he felt telling Harry would do more harm then good. His options narrowed pretty quickly after that.

So he'd told Mike.

He and Mike had lived next door to each other since childhood, playing rugby together throughout school. He was the one stable person in John's life. Mike was that friend you could count for anything; a late night snack, a floor to sleep on after being awake half the night to parents screaming at each other, an understanding but not intrusive personality. More often then not, he referred to Mike as his brother.

He was John's person.

Mike was also the captain of their team and the life of the party every weekend. For some reason, telling someone who was drunk often that he was gay felt unsafe. So he waited.

The day they graduated, Mike gave John a long, inebriated speech about how once they were off at uni, he was never speaking to anyone from their town again. Said he was sick and tired of the small-town mentality that if anyone is different, they are somehow bad. He'd thrown his beer bottle up the sky and yelled, "Fuck you all! We're going to London!"

John had laughed until his ribs hurt. Then made the decision to tell him.

But not quite yet.

He'd stuck with his game plan. No point in dealing with it when he was _so bloody close_ to moving out of the damned town. He didn't want to risk any complications. So he swallowed his secret back up, and got himself a job at the local grocery store to save some money for London.

And masturbated at every possible moment alone like the titillated teenager he was.

Of course, the grocery store position came with it's own set of complications.

A month before they left for school, John sat down with his best friend and bared his soul. Seeing as they were about to start living together, and John had big plans for London, he felt it was only right. To his sheer relief, Mike had slapped him on the back and grinned. "Aw, you're a poof? That's adorable," he'd said, gripping his shoulder. John had gone beat red and Mike had laughed. "Hey, it's alright mate, your secret is safe with me! As long as I'm not the one you're into, it's all good."

John's lips had curved into a small smile. "You're not my type."

Mike had laughed again. "Good. Look, all I know is this isn't exactly a choice. You fancy who you fancy, yeah? Doesn't matter if they got tits or dicks."

Mike's words were ringing in John's ears now, feeling foolish for not seeing that comment was hitting closer to home for Mike then he'd realized.

Mike stayed sober for the last month before moving, for which John was eternally grateful.

"Alright, well how about a round of beers then?" John asked now, standing up from their new dingy couch. John wanted nothing more then to retreat to his room and relive every minute of the conversation he'd had with Sherlock. But he knew his friend needed him. Mike needed to see their friendship was still solid and nothing was going to change that.

Mike grinned up at John from his still seated position from the couch and nodded. "Hell yes. Bring it on. I'd like to hear all about that mystery guy that hit on you at the party."

John raised his eyebrows. "Really? You were just contemplating sucking me off and now you want to talk about someone else potentially doing it?"

"Actually, I was planning on sticking my dick in your mouth."

John hucked a pillow at his friend and Mike laughed, catching it. "Wanker," John muttered, as he made his way to their kitchen in their tiny flat. He grabbed two beers from the fridge and popped them open at the edge of the counter.

"But really," Mike was saying as John walked back into the main room. "Who was that guy?"

"Dunno," John said, trying to shrug nonchalantly. He didn't want to talk about Sherlock. With anyone. For some reason, the conversation they'd had felt private. Like a secret the two of them shared. He didn't want to destroy that illusion by telling someone. Even if it hadn't ended the way he would have liked. And how in god's name would he be able to explain Sherlock's... observations? Mike wouldn't understand. John wasn't even sure if he truly understood.

Mike raised an eyebrow. "You don't know? The guy asked if he could fuck you, John. There was no other way to take that."

"He was joking," John tried to explain half-heartedly, hardly putting any effort into the lie. Technically, Sherlock hadn't said he was joking. He'd said he was creating a distraction. That left the door open for speculation and John had already let his imagination run wild.

"I don't know about that," Mike muttered next to him, then slammed his beer on the table and turned sharply to John. "Jesus, John, are you actually considering it?!"

"What? No. Come on, Mike," John said in another non-convincing voice.

"Are you fucking joking John? You can't just go to some guy's house for three days and let him do whatever he wants to you!" Mike was on the verge of hysterics.

"Woah, Mike, relax. I'm not going to anyone's house to do anything. You think I'd go spend a weekend alone with some stranger?"

Yes, he would. He absolutely would if it were Sherlock asking. But he didn't mention that to his friend.

Mike blew out a breath.

"Christ, okay, you scared the hell out of me. Don't do that John. I know you want to explore all this finally and figure it out but seriously, be fucking careful. That guy was hot but he was a little creepy. And forward as shit."

It was John's turn to raise an eyebrow at his friend and he smirked. "Hot, huh?"

Mike's face went red. "Oh shut up, you arse. You know what I mean."

John took a swig of his beer, smiling as he gulped it down. "You're one to talk Mister 'I May Be Into Boys Now'" John giggled.

"Stop smiling," Mike growled next to him and John laughed again. "Hey, at least maybe you can get over Jake now, yeah?"

John fidgeted with his beer bottle for a moment uncomfortably.

Jake. That name hadn't crossed his mind since the moment he laid eyes on Sherlock. He hadn't even realized it. Not until now. Now the name burned in his brain, seared into his thoughts, blazing and screaming to be seen.

_Jake._

He'd thought that had been so cute at the time. Jake and John. Like they were a pair. A team. Partners in crime. How childish he had been.

"Yeah maybe," John murmured. He felt Mike's eyes on him but he refused to meet them. He didn't want to have this conversation. Again.

"Hey," Mike said, patting John's shoulder awkwardly. "The guy was a fucking tool. You'll find someone."

John took the opportunity to change the subject to something lighter. "I'm still not letting you fuck me, Mike."

Mike froze for only a moment and then burst out laughing. The boys settled back in to their comfortable friendship and flipped on the telly.

Later that night as John lay alone in his room, he found that he didn't want to feel sorry for himself. He didn't want to think about anything besides that gorgeous face he'd seen earlier. He wanted to imagine that face above his, staring at him like he had at the beginning of their conversation. He wanted to feel those hands on him again. He wanted to know what sounds he could elicit from that mouth, what that body could do to his own.

_Sherlock _was the name blazing in his mind tonight.

And as his hand slid down his belly, his imagination took hold of the beautiful, shaggy-haired man he'd been captivated by and John forgot about Jake all over again.

* * *

><p>Sherlock Holmes did not get stuck on people the way he was stuck on John Watson. He was fascinated. But he'd been fascinated before. That wasn't the issue. That was something he could overcome.<p>

This was an entirely different situation.

He replayed the conversation he'd had with John over and over. He should be able to file it away after the amount of times he'd gone over it. He should be able to close it and move on. But he couldn't let it go just yet. He wanted to let it percolate for just a bit longer. He'd learned so much in that short time.

He decided to go through the facts one more time.

For one, the boy was obviously starved for physical attention. That was clear by the race of his pulse when Sherlock had placed his hand on his cheek. John hadn't noticed Sherlock's pinky finger settling over her carotid artery, gaging his reaction.

What had been most fascinating was when Sherlock had turned his attention to Mike, John's pulse had begun pounding. Could have been due to fear for his friend but he hadn't even looked at Mike. He hadn't moved an inch. So it was panic that the attention was no longer on him. Worry that he wasn't Sherlock's priority any more.

Sherlock had reveled in it. He'd seduced his fair share of virgins, both men and women, although it wasn't his first choice. Such an easy thing, convincing those interested yet hesitant with just a look or a sentence. It was ever satisfying and excellent for research purposes. It had become somewhat of a game.

And with John, it seemed like the game was on.

But Sherlock's curiosity had gotten the better of him. His ego-stroke was a necessary evil and he couldn't stop himself. He wanted the answers to his questions. He wanted to know if he'd been right.

He'd been watching the two friends all night; a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, cranky looking kid, on the shorter side but very fit (rugby or football player perhaps?), looking as though the last thing he wanted to do was be at the party, as he pulled at his collar and glared at the crowd. Sherlock recognized him as John Watson, new student this year joining the pre-med program.

Poor kid was in for a rude awakening tomorrow morning.

The other was a taller, stocky boy, probably a teammate, whose dark eyes barely left John. Not someone Sherlock knew. _So obviously an idiot,_ Sherlock had mused. It had been terribly intriguing watching that boy's inner-turmoil play across his face as he stared at John. It didn't take long for Sherlock to catch on to what was happening, and the boy's plan made him want to laugh. _What a fool he must be_, Sherlock thought. To consider his close friend for sexual experiments. The blonde had clearly zero attraction to his friend.

And then he'd watched as John had gone to the bar for his friend's drink, stayed by his side even when he was irritating him, never once drifting away to go find more interesting people to talk to. He was loyal. And clearly very stupid for missing all the signs Mike was throwing his way.

It was rather enjoyable to have John's attention on Sherlock. He hadn't been able to tear his eyes from him, very clearly aroused, and obviously inexperienced, given how little control he had over his reaction to seeing a good-looking man. Sherlock had fought back a wicked smile, and before he'd decided on his plan of action, John had looked away. Sherlock had frowned at that. Normally, even the newly outed ones approached him. They couldn't help themselves. Sherlock drew them in. He exuded danger. The younger ones loved the thrill.

Then he'd watched John's interaction with the overly friendly bartender who was eyeing him, sizing him up for a come-on, trying to decide if John would be a top or a bottom. And John had given him an extra fucking tip. This boy was far too kind, and far too naive. God, he probably would shag his poor friend just to make him happy.

Fascinating.

So Sherlock, being Sherlock, had intervened. He told himself it was out of curiosity. He told himself it was about data and interest in proving his theories and observations.

But he couldn't stop from touching John's cheek and his bottom lip, and considered taking this young man to his bed. He was very good-looking; those giant blue eyes full of wonder and curiosity and Sherlock knew he would be forever grateful for Sherlock's lessons in the bedroom. Virgins were always an experience; expecting much less then what they got and begging for more. It was a twisted sense of enjoyment for Sherlock. His words to John had been a mix of truth and distraction. He hadn't quite decided which way to go when he spoke them.

But something made the decision for him. Some minute, tiny movement John made, some miniscule muscle spasm and Sherlock's heart had softened. This boy had never been touched. Not just intimately. Ever. Not held closely by a loving mother or patted on the back by a proud father. No gentle, chaste kisses or innocent hand holding by a first beau. This poor boy had never been shown any affection whatsoever.

And yet the way he presented himself was warm. He was inviting and open, clearly a caring, nice person. An untrained eye would have never picked up on the subtleties that Sherlock was able to. To the outside world, John Watson was just another boring, regular, horny 18-year-old boy.

And for some reason, that made Sherlock incredibly angry. No one besides him could see how unusual John Watson truly was. No one else could see what made him different and exciting and true. Not some mock up society created, but a true, real, honest person.

And then John had become interesting. So bloody interesting. He had asked questions, had been curious about Sherlock's thought process, had wanted to learn about him. He wasn't looking for things from Sherlock. He wanted the real deal. He wanted the truth, good or bad. And sure, he'd drooled over Sherlock a bit, but he wasn't going to back down just because of that. He held his ground, took on the challenge without even realizing it.

Sherlock had never met someone who was both direct and shy.

And for once, he didn't want to take this boy's innocence. He didn't want to take him to pieces in a purely animalistic way all in the name of data.

He wanted John to have everything he ever wanted. He wanted him to have affection and connection and love. _Love._ A word Sherlock hardly ever thought.

Sherlock wanted to laugh at that thought. He didn't do sentiment. He didn't do love.

He couldn't quite help himself with his parting comment to John, though. Just to see those giant blue eyes dark with desire one more time. Pure ego-boost.

And so he would leave this surprisingly curious, unexpectedly charming, strapping young man alone.

Because Sherlock couldn't give John what he so desperately needed.

Sherlock rolled over on his couch, his body aching from lying in the exact same position. He stretched and let a small smile creep onto his lips.

Poor John Watson. He had no idea what awaited him in the morning.

****I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it. Please let me know your thoughts! Thank you for reading!****


	3. Chapter 3

****I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it.****

He should have been better prepared for the mess first thing in the morning. After the encounter he had the night before he should have been paying attention to his body and planned ahead. He'd had impromptu waking fantasies from that conversation. How did he not assume he'd have unconscious ones just as easily?

The dream had been downright dirty and the lingering side effects of his sleeping orgasm as well as the vivid memory sent little jolts through him. He shivered, stretched and yawned, feeling somewhere between satisfied and disappointed. His imagination did well. It was the faux-realness that bothered him.

John cursed his body and then his brain, then wriggled out of his shorts and pajama bottoms and tossed them in the hamper. He glanced at his clock. 6:30 AM. No way in hell Mike was up yet.

John crept out of his room and darted into the empty loo, closing the door quietly and locking it. He flipped the levers of the shower on to scalding hot, climbed in and ducked his head under the water.

And tried desperately to push down on the sinking feeling in his stomach.

This was the worst thing about wet dreams: the loneliness afterward. It always seemed odd to John that he felt alone after an involuntary solo session when he'd never been assisted with an orgasm in his life. And somehow, that's exactly how it felt. Somehow, it was a damp, depressing reminder that he was in fact alone. No one to help in getting him off. No one to curl around afterward and whisper tender things to him. No one to stroke his hair and rub his back.

John never understood how he could miss something he never had.

It was never satisfying to wake up this way.

Luckily, it usually didn't linger the entire day. Normally, John was able to burn the feeling out of him under the heated water and move on with his morning.

Today was a little different.

He cooled the water down just a bit when it was clear his feelings were taking a sharp turn down memory lane and pressed his palms to the shower wall, dropping his head.

The conversation he had with Sherlock from the night before flashed through his mind and he closed his eyes.

What an idiot he had been. Sherlock had probably thought him quite pathetic after their encounter. John had barely said anything to the guy. He'd stood there with his mouth hanging open, while Sherlock had not only figured out several of his secrets but he'd also saved his friendship with Mike.

Like a fucking knight in shining armor.

John hadn't thought himself the type to shag on the first date, or the first meeting in this case, but he'd never seen someone like Sherlock. He'd never reacted like that to anyone. He hadn't been prepared for his lust-filled brain to take over his entire being. And he hated that Sherlock had seen _that _John. The John that was thinking only with his dick, not his brain. The John that desperately needed to fuck someone before he went mad.

He wished he could go back in time and show Sherlock the real John Watson. The John that was nice and friendly. The John that was confident. The John that could hold a normal conversation.

No wonder Sherlock thought he couldn't handle anything. John could hardly handle a conversation. He had acted like a love struck moron.

And it wasn't even that. Sure, he would have loved to lose her virginity to a gorgeous man like that. It sounded great in theory. But the worst was that Sherlock was bloody fucking _interesting_. He was positively phenomenal. All the information he seemed to have plucked out of thin air was actually the truth. The way he read body language and facial expressions was incredible. And the way that mouth spun those seductive words, John was sure even a normal person would have had trouble tempering their libido.

Sherlock was a little bit fascinating and so different then anyone John had ever met. Sherlock was right; John _was _very curious.

On top of that, Sherlock _knew_ about John. That made Sherlock the second person on God's green earth who knew. And John sort of loved that. John had already decided he was going to start experimenting with his new life as soon as he got to London. What better way to start then with a handsome gay man already knowing? Even if nothing happened between them…and god did that hurt to even think… John still wanted to talk to him. Hang out with him. Get to know him.

He didn't want to miss out on knowing Sherlock.

So, if anything, they should be friends. They should spend time together and maybe John could, at the very least, earn an ally in London. He could use it, after all. He knew a total of one person here.

And somehow, he knew it wouldn't be that easy. Sherlock didn't seem the type to trust just anyone. John was going to have to prove himself. John smirked a little at that. Like Sherlock had said: he was always up for a challenge.

Although, the way John had responded during their conversation was embarrassingly immature. He could barely get his brain to send actual words to his mouth, let alone sentences. Sherlock clearly had one hell of a gift, was obviously highly intelligent, and John wanted to kick himself for how he'd reacted. He really wasn't normally like that. It was utterly humiliating.

If he could just get one more shot at a conversation with him, he could show him. Show him he was worth Sherlock's time.

John wallowed for a moment longer, his fingers now wrinkling under the water, and the made a decision. If he ever were to run in to Sherlock again, which was likely since they obviously went to the same school, John would make up for his embarrassing lack of control over himself. He would start a conversation with the man, prove that he was actually a normal person. No thoughts or discussions about sex. Just a nice chat. He would be on his game this time, stay focused and alert. Be prepared for anything Sherlock tossed at him. Maybe he would even ask him to coffee or lunch.

He could do that. And he would. First chance he got.

John gave himself a self-assured nod, actively turned his thoughts away from Sherlock and onto school and shut off the water.

He crept back into his room, towel wrapped around his waist, and rummaged through his drawers, picking out clothes. He felt a little childish finding his outfit for the first day of school, but it was a big day. Today was the day John Watson began his career as a doctor. And dammit if he wasn't going to indulge himself a bit.

John threw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, laying a button down and a jumper on the bed for later consideration after breakfast and tea. He always made better decisions after tea.

He padded around the flat going about his normal morning routine, flipping the kettle on and digging in the fridge for eggs. Mike had teased him their first few days living here about how most college kids slept in, grabbed whatever food was closest to them for breakfast and threw on dirty clothes. Not John. John had been taking care of himself for 18 years. He had a morning and night routine and he actually knew how to do laundry. In his house, if you didn't take of yourself, you weren't going to be taken care of. A lovely side affect of growing up in the Watson home.

John sat down at the small round kitchen table Mike had acquired from an older sibling's storage unit and flipped open his laptop, setting his breakfast and tea next to it. He opened his browser, homepage already saved to the school's website, and navigated his way to his schedule. He read through it again as he had every day for a week, narrowing his eyes at his first course.

Chemistry lecture.

Right then. He could handle that. No problem. He finished his eggs and tea, snapped his laptop shut and wandered back to his bedroom, feeling prepared, a little anxious but ready to go. He glanced at the clock. 7:30AM. Might as well get a move on.

He decided on the dark plaid button down for the somewhat warmer weather they seemed to be having, threw his keys, phone and wallet in his pockets and slung his bag over her shoulder. _Game time_, he thought to himself and smirked.

There was still no sign of Mike as John snuck out of their flat and made his way to campus.

He refused to let his thoughts stray to soft and wild curls as he walked to his first class.

He double-checked the building and room number on his schedule before daring to throw open the doors. He'd all of a sudden become very nervous and he looked around to see several other students standing outside the door, comparing schedules. He felt his heart sink a bit. It seemed he was the only one who didn't have some sort of friend or acquaintance to start this journey with. Maybe he should have made a better effort at the party.

"First year Chemistry lecture?" John jerked a little at the voice so close to him and turned to his left to stare up at a tall, dark haired, very tanned boy who was grinning back at him. John blinked for a second, not entirely sure if he was the one being spoken to. The boy took a step closer to him. "Chem lecture?" he repeated, looking a little unsure.

"Oh, right," John said, shaking his head. "Sorry, I didn't know if you were talking to me or not. I'm new."

The boy grinned wider. "Yeah, no shit, we're all new mate! Bloody terrifying, first day of classes, yeah? Figured I'd soften the blow and try to make me some friends."

John couldn't help but smile back. The kid reminded him a little of Mike, all confident but kind and he stuck out his hand. "No kidding. I'm John. John Watson."

"Lincoln Jones, Link for short," he replied brightly, shaking John's hand. "You seemed like the only other guy who didn't know anyone so far. Thought I'd take the leap and come bother you. Shall we?"

John nodded, feeling the nervous knot loosen a bit. He had a friend now. Maybe that would make this experience a little less scary.

They wandered into the lecture hall, which wasn't as big as John had anticipated it being, and took seats in the back of the class. A piece of paper was laid out on each desk and John plucked it up as he sat, scanning it over.

"Looks like details for what the class will be like," John muttered.

"Yeah, I- Oh no," Link groaned from next to him and John looked over.

"What?"

Link pointed to the very top of the page. The course title was in bold letters and below that read:

**Led by:** Professor Gibbons

**TA:** Mr. Holmes

John blinked and looked back up, bemused. "So?"

Link's eyes widened. "So?! Mate, our TA is Holmes!"

"That literally means nothing to me," John said teasingly but truthfully.

Link threw his head back. "Oh man, have you not heard? Ugh, apparently, he basically runs the class for the professor and he's tough as hell."

"Oh," John felt a nervous slither of anticipation go through his stomach. He could handle a tough class but the way Link was reacting had him a little worried.

"I hear he's a real prick too," Link continued. "Not a nice guy at all."

"Great," John replied sarcastically. "Well, let's just hope he's not that bad."

Link didn't reply, just shook his head and stared at his paper. John glanced around the class. He caught a couple other small groups of people pointing wide-eyed at the paper in front of them and fear registering in their features. So this Holmes guy was well known. Maybe he _was_ as bad as Link had said. John forced himself not to panic. He was a good student. He could handle a tough teacher.

John scanned the room again and landed on the back of a dark, curly head in the front row. John couldn't help the smile that crept on to his face. _Sherlock._ He was here. He was in his class. He could get his chance now. John made a mental note of the best place to linger after class and started planning what he would say to Sherlock when he got him alone. To _talk_, he mentally reminded himself.

And then Sherlock stood and turned around and John thanked god he was sitting down as he felt his knees weaken. He was yet again, dressed to the nines, in a black, nicely fitted suit, a dark purple button-down peaking from beneath, the buttons hanging open loosely at the collar. John's dream from the night before came rushing back and he did his very best not to blush, or cross his legs tellingly, seeing flashes of Sherlock's head tossed back, mouth falling open, eyes closed, panting John's name... Christ Almighty. Get it together.

John was very grateful he would have a whole class period to control himself before he actually spoke to him. He started in on his mindset, still watching Sherlock.

Sherlock glided to the side of the lecture hall, lingering in the corner. John only had a moment to question what he was doing. The doors to the right burst open and a short, balding man came in, panting slightly. He threw his briefcase on the teacher's desk and approached the podium.

"Hello hello, so sorry I'm a bit late. First day always fu- messes me up a bit. I'm Professor Gibbons, and as much as I'd like to say I'll be teaching your class this semester, I'm afraid that's only half true. I'll be running this course in tandem with my TA Mr. Holmes. Please respect and treat him like he is also a professor. He's got an excellent grasp on the material and will be a great asset to you. In fact, why don't I introduce him now. Sherlock? Come on up."

Professor Gibbons clearly had no interest in teaching his own class. John wondered why he even bothered to show-

Oh no.

Oh Jesus.

John tensed all over as Sherlock strode to the podium. "Thank you, Professor," Sherlock was saying as John's entire body grew cold.

His_ teacher_. He had been drooling over his_ teacher_.

Wait. His teacher had hit on him. Didn't he? Almost? At least he pretended to? Didn't he imply he wanted to do... something with him? To him_? _His_ teacher._

John felt frozen in place.

Sherlock was speaking again and John tried to tune back in with difficulty, the horrifying reality of the situation registering in his brain.

"As Professor Gibbons stated, I am Sherlock Holmes and I will be your Teaching Assistant and more often then not lecturer. I will also be grading all of your work. Professor Gibbons received tenure this year and has all but given up on teaching, as he no longer has a reason to put in an effort. I was assigned to his course at random, it was not my first choice, but that will have no baring on my ability to properly teach you all."

Every head in the room turned toward Professor Gibbons, whose eyes were glued to his computer screen and didn't seem to have heard a word of what Sherlock had just said. John almost wanted to laugh. He pressed his lips together tightly.

"Who the fuck does this guy think he is?" Link muttered next to him, and John coughed into his hand, stifling his giggle.

"I'm sure you've all been through orientation by now," Sherlock continued, "and have no doubt been told countless times that you are the 'wave of the future' and the 'next brilliant generation' and you were 'chosen for a reason' when admitted. That is entirely incorrect. Do not take those statements to heart. I do not plan to coddle any of you. Do not expect any leniency simply because you are first years. If you do, you will not succeed in this course. I expect you to work to your full potential, and not waste my time. Do not misunderstand me. I do not care if you succeed or not. That is entirely up to you. I am a mere tool to your learning experience."

"You're a tool alright," Link breathed under his breath and John grinned. Sherlock's eyes flickered to him and John froze for a moment before relaxing.

Maybe this wasn't the worst thing in the world. Sherlock was incredibly entertaining up there, all sassy and demanding and sexy as hell. So what if he was his teacher? That only meant he would get to see him three days a week. That thought was a pleasing one. John settled back in his seat, allowing himself to relax and enjoy the show.

"Now," Sherlock continued, looking back over the class. "Let us begin."

* * *

><p>It was a bit unnerving how content John looked in the back of the class. Sherlock had seen the utter terror on his face when he'd first approached the podium, which he had anticipated but it hadn't lasted. John almost looked… like he was enjoying himself. Like finding out his new Chemistry teacher was the mysterious man from the night that John had clearly wanted to be fucked by wasn't a traumatizing event. John looked far from traumatized. He looked more…amused.<p>

Last night, John had been nervous, fidgety and not in control of any of his emotions.

Today, John was self-assured, confident and a little smug.

It was irritatingly hot.

"That's all for today. Please check the website for the homework and be prepared to discuss it on Wednesday," Sherlock finished.

Sherlock strolled back to his chair and picked up his bag, shuffling his papers together and sliding them into the front pocket. He turned to his laptop perched on the desk and scanned his e-mails before going to power down the machine, pretending not to know that John was going to attempt to speak to him once everyone left. That confidence wasn't going to go to waste on a simple stare. He watched out of the corner of his eye as John made an excuse to his friend and slowly packed up his things, waiting for the class to clear out. Sherlock smirked.

The room quieted as the remainder of the students and Professor Gibbons exited the room.

"Hi," John's friendly voice came from behind him and Sherlock allowed a small smile before schooling his features to indifference and turning. He forced himself to keep his face neutral as he came face to face with a smiling John Watson.

"Can I help you?"

John seemed a bit taken aback by the response but recovered quickly. "So is that always how you introduce yourself to your students?"

Sherlock cocked his head. "I like to be direct. No reason to allow anyone to believe I am their confidant when I am in fact, not."

John grinned a little harder and stole a glance down at the floor. "No, I mean last night. You hit on all the boys like that?"

"As I stated, I was merely causing a distraction, Mr. Watson."

John's smile waivered only a bit but he didn't back down. "It's Mr. Watson now? You weren't so formal last night, _Mister _Holmes."

Sherlock had to fight down the smile he wanted to return. He liked this stronger almost flirty John. He knew he had it in him, and it killed Sherlock to admit he was excited to see him out. He forced himself to keep his cool demeanor. He couldn't let John know how he was making Sherlock feel. "Again, Mr. Watson, I had a specific goal in mind last night. I did what was necessary to meet that goal."

John bit his lip and Sherlock's heartbeat sped up a bit.

"Yeah, alright," John seemed to be mentally shaking himself to get back on task. "So, you're like a professor?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as if that were the stupidest question he'd ever been asked in his life. "No, I am not a_ professor_." Every word he spoke was dripping with disdain. "I am a Teaching Assistant. Did you miss that while you and your friend were snickering in the back of the room?"

John's mouth quirked into another smile. "Probably. Why do you care? You jealous?"

Sherlock forced a condescending snort, masking the fact that John was spot on. "I'd appreciate it if my students paid attention during my lectures."

John took a bold step forward. "Ah. So you want me to pay attention to you?"

Sherlock forced himself to turn back to his bag. He needed to get away from this boy. He was rapidly losing control. "Well, this has been pleasant, and wildly inappropriate Mr. Watson, so if there's nothing else you want-"

"So is this how you knew my name and what program I was in? You knew I'd be in your class? And you say _I'm_ being inappropriate."

Sherlock kept his back to him. He had given too much away already. He couldn't risk it. He could never give John what he wanted. What he _needed_. He needed to stay away from him. "As I stated previously, several times in fact, I had a purpose for approaching you. I apologise if you took what I said out of context."

"Out of context!" John almost yelled, then immediately stopped himself. Sherlock exhaled quietly. _There you go, John. Get angry. _John continued after catching himself. "Sorry, that's not... okay you're right. You told me that last night. Just a bit... disappointing, I suppose."

Sherlock kept silent, not trusting himself to speak. He stuffed his laptop back into his bag and hoisted it over his shoulder. He took a deep breath and turned back to John who was looking very unsure of himself. "Problem?" he asked, succeeding in sounding indifferent.

John shifted his weight nervously. "No, uh, no problem. I just was wondering if you maybe wanted to get a coffee or something."

Sherlock felt his stomach do a backflip.

No one had ever asked him to coffee. No one ever asked him to do anything. He was approached for… _other_ things. Constantly, in fact. But never had anyone been this…direct. This _nice_.

Normally those who approached him started with attempted small talk, feeling out the situation, then waited for Sherlock to initiate. Sherlock was never delicate. They knew the deal. He made the decision if they went home or on occasion the back alley. Not dates. Never had anyone been interested in getting to know him, and never had he wanted anyone to. He didn't ask about them and they didn't ask about him. It was pretty obvious to the outside world that Sherlock was not the relationship type. He was the best fuck of your life type. No more, no less. There was no talking, no getting to know each other and no next time. Those were standards Sherlock exuded.

Apparently, John had missed all that.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. "Seeing as I'm your teacher," Sherlock said as slowly and as coldly as he could muster, "I do not believe that would be a good idea."

John stared at him for a moment and then laughed. He _laughed_. Sherlock took a step back a bit startled.

"Alright, alright, I get it, you are _far_ more superior then I, your highness," John said. He chuckled again and glanced at the ceiling, still smiling broadly. "Okay, how about this? I am concerned about doing well in this class and would like to meet my TA outside of class to get extra help. Would you meet me for coffee if we put it that way?"

Sherlock sighed. This boy really wasn't going to make this easy for him. And a small, twisted part of him was so glad he wasn't backing down. He was enjoying seeing the fight John had in him.

"Look," John continued, taking a step forward, his face softening. "I hardly know anyone here. I'm brand new to London, in case that wasn't obvious, and I..." he thought for a moment. "Honestly, I'd like to make some friends." He smiled at Sherlock, and shrugged his shoulders. "What do you say, Sherlock? Want to be my friend?"

Sherlock pressed his lips together. Christ, how much more endearing could someone get? He didn't want to smile. He couldn't smile.

Based on the broadening grin on John's face, he wasn't doing a great job of suppressing it. Sherlock looked down and shook his head. Clearly, John wasn't giving up. "Look at the course information sheet," he heard himself say and he internally cursed. What was he doing? He knew better.

John furrowed his brow. "What?"

Sherlock gripped his bag, and turned to leave. "The sheet you got in class. Look at it." He was his teacher, he reasoned with himself. He could invite a student to office hours. No big deal.

"Okay... why exactly?"

Sherlock pushed open the door and turned to look at him, feigning exasperation. "Top of the sheet has my office hours. If you feel you need additional help in this course, be sure to attend them. Good morning."

And with that, Sherlock strolled out, but not before throwing a last glance over his shoulder at John to see him smiling down at his feet.

A darker part of Sherlock hated himself for what he'd just done. A lighter part of Sherlock felt the familiar excitement of possibility. The lighter part won in the end and Sherlock grinned foolishly.

****I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it.****


	4. Chapter 4

****I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it.****

"Knock, knock."

Sherlock glanced up to find John's blonde head peering around the door of his office, smiling brightly, his blue eyes sparkling in the afternoon light.

Sherlock almost smiled.

Almost.

"Mr. Watson," Sherlock replied in the most cool, indifferent tone he could manage and looked back down to the paper he'd been reading.

His heart dropped into his stomach as a large Styrofoam cup was pushed across his desk into his view. Sherlock glanced up.

"I promised you coffee," John said with a shrug and a smile.

"No you didn't," Sherlock replied curtly. "You asked me to go get a coffee with you."

"Ah, same thing," John said with a flip of his wrist as he settled into the chair across from his desk.

"No it's not."

John waived his hand back and forth as he took a sip of his coffee, looking mildly annoyed. "Whatever, whatever, don't spoil it, alright? I made it through my first week of uni and I got an excellent mark on my homework from my tough chemistry teacher." John grinned. "It's been an excellent start to my academic career."

"Your work was adequate," Sherlock replied shortly then looked down at his untouched coffee and back to John. "Is that what this is? A bribe for more good marks?"

John giggled and Sherlock stopped breathing for a moment, the sound so unexpectedly sweet to his ears. He fought back his own smile.

"I don't need to bribe you, I did well all on my own." John was practically giddy. Sherlock pursed his lips.

"How much coffee have you digested?"

John frowned for a moment. "None until now. Why?"

"You're very... chipper." Sherlock raised an eyebrow and again, John laughed. It was an infuriatingly nice noise.

"It's Friday Sherlock! Come on. Let's go do something. I think Mike may be going to a party. Or wanting to throw a party... God I hope he doesn't throw a party. Our flat is a mess and it's very small…"

Sherlock cocked his head as John continued to ramble. This was the first time John had come to his office hours, and if Sherlock were being honest, it was rather nice to see him outside of class. It held possibilities that those single hours in the morning three days a week just didn't. It had been five days since their chat after class, and Sherlock had been a bit disappointed when John hadn't shown up for his Tuesday or Thursday hours.

A larger part of him had felt relieved. He'd thought maybe John had gotten the message. It wasn't difficult to read between the lines of John's 'I just want to be friends' statement. It was the nicest way for someone like him to phrase 'I'd like you to fuck me over this table.' It almost made Sherlock angry how much the boy couldn't see his own potential. He was good. He deserved good. For something better, something more then his neglectful parents, more then some idiot boy who couldn't see how interesting he was.

So when John hadn't shown up for his hours the first two days, Sherlock had begun to wonder. Maybe John had realized Sherlock wasn't what he wanted or needed. Maybe he'd realized he didn't want casual sex. Maybe he'd realized he deserved so much more then that. After all, Sherlock had done his best to put John off during their little chat.

Well. That wasn't strictly true. He'd thrown him the office hours bone now hadn't he? Sherlock internally sighed, hating admitting mistakes to himself. He just couldn't quite leave that beautiful young man, who had so recently been rejected by some stupid kid who couldn't see all the potential he had, alone in the classroom without a sliver of hope. For some reason, he couldn't be that cruel to John. No, that wasn't true. He didn't _want_ to be that cruel.

Of course, the hope he'd given John was futile and maybe cruel in its own right. Sherlock knew very well he'd never be able to give John even a fragment of what the boy very obviously needed. He couldn't take care of someone, put their happiness before his own. He couldn't love them. He'd only disappoint and hurt John.

And he didn't want to hurt anyone. That wasn't the point of his personal life. He'd just never wanted more. He enjoyed sex, he was very skilled at sex, and his partners were always well aware of what encounters with Sherlock entailed. He didn't do it to be cruel, he was always upfront about it and it wasn't some big surprise afterward that he didn't want to date them. He saw no benefit or interest in a relationship before. And even if he did now, he was certain he was incapable of such a thing.

Conclusion: he couldn't have a relationship with John.

Of course, here John was showing up at his office late on Friday afternoon. Sherlock purposely scheduled his hours late in the day, anticipating that no one would show up. Friday was an obvious pick to schedule them, seeing as most students became less interested in their studies and more interested in alcohol by that late in the week, and Sherlock was smugly proud of his scheduling success. No one had ever come to his office hours on at this time. If he were required to hold them, he would make it as inconvenient as possible. Especially since he didn't particularly like teaching. He couldn't have cared less about molding the minds of tomorrow.

He should have anticipated John showing up now.

"So, what do you think? Should we go do something?" John was staring hopefully at him.

"Do I seem like the type of person to 'go do something', Mr. Watson?"

John grinned. "No. That's exactly why you should come with me. And knock it off with the Mr. Watson thing, it's annoying."

"Maybe I'm looking to annoy you."

"Yeah, you obviously are. Unfortunately, you haven't seemed to become aware that I am quite stubborn."

"Oh, I've noticed. It's not hard to miss."

John never wiped the smile off his face. "And now I'm not backing down about going to do something. Come on! We could grab a drink at a pub? Or go to a party? Or sit here and stare into space?"

"You're brimming with brilliant ideas, John."

John beamed at him, and Sherlock realized his mistake too late. John didn't mention it, just gave a knowing little smile and somehow that made it worse. Sherlock glared for a moment, then John reached over and plucked a notepad and pen from Sherlock's desk.

"Alright, how about this. I need to get a run in today anyway." John scribbled something on the notepad then tossed it back to Sherlock. "How about, if you decide to stop being a grumpy old man, you can let me know. Ball is in your court."

Sherlock's lips twitched. "How old could you possibly think I am, John?"

John sat back, looking thoughtful. "I honestly have no idea."

Sherlock did smile this time. "Good. I like to remain mysterious."

"Yeah, no shit," John giggled.

Sherlock ducked his head, trying not to grin at his reaction. Sherlock was almost positive he'd never allowed the word 'adorable' to run through his mind as many times as it had since he'd met John. He wasn't so certain he'd ever thought the word in his life until the last week.

Sherlock pretended to study the note John had just tossed at him. "So you just gave your teacher your phone number. How very forward of you."

"Well when said teacher said he'd like to fuck me not a week ago, I think we're passed forward, don't you?"

Oh, Christ. He didn't just say that, did he? Sherlock forced himself not to lick his lips. Fucking John Watson would be... something he would not allow himself to think about again.

"What would you like me to do with this information you have given me?" Sherlock asked, waiving the notepad at him and trying to move past the images flying around in his mind.

John leaned forward, narrowing his eyes predatorily. Sherlock swallowed thickly. "You're an intelligent man, Sherlock. Figure it out."

John stood up abruptly and Sherlock almost jumped at the sudden movement. He'd been far to absorbed in those deep blue eyes.

"I'm off for my run. Let me know if you want to stop being boring and come hang out with me."

Sherlock guffawed. Him, _boring_?! Please.

John turned at the door, hand gripping the handle and looked at him expectantly, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. "What was that?"

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands over his sternum and narrowed his eyes. He needed to end this. They were treading in unsafe waters and Sherlock needed to stop it. No matter how much he was enjoying it. He wished he could tell John he was doing this for his own good.

Sherlock allowed a subtle smirk to tug at his lips purposefully and then started in.

"You're attempting to show your confidence to overcome the humiliating reaction you had to me at the party. You're strong but not as strong as you're trying to come off because you're attempting to impress me, maybe because you're interested in me, more likely because you didn't receive proper love and affection in your childhood home and the positive attention of anyone is very important to you. You work hard for people to like you, as none of your family members seem to, which is why you have taken an interest in me as I seem difficult to please."

Sherlock let that simmer for a moment then continued on.

"The coffee is more of an offering, an attempt to prove you can be an asset to me, but being unsure as to what that may mean to me, coffee seemed like the safest option. It's also a gift to prove you are a caring person and can provide affection. You waited five days to come to my office to appear less eager, but the state of your well-ironed clothing, coifed hair and the temperature of the coffee have made the eagerness obvious. You've been planning this 'casual' drop-in all week. Your staged abrupt exit and placing the 'ball in my court' so to speak with your phone number is a blatant attempt to reverse the wound of my rejection last week. You want to spend time with me, and you're hoping this meeting has proved you are worth of my time but you don't want to appear desperate and you certainly don't want to flat out ask me for sex because you perceive my parting words the night of the party as a rejection. Your most recent attempt in courting someone ended poorly and you're riddled with fear of experiencing that again, therefore you are attempting to start out as friends, although I may add that you are not masking your true intent well."

Sherlock let the smugness take over his face as John stared at him. "Did I get anything wrong?"

Then, to his surprise and shock, John visibly relaxed and his lips quirked into an amused grin.

"All true," he said with a shoulder shrug. His eyes traveled down Sherlock's torso and back up again. He raised his eyebrows, smiling broadly. "Call me."

And with that, John disappeared through the door.

* * *

><p>John woke Monday morning, immediately scrambled to the side of his bed and ripped his phone from the charger. He clicked the home button, the screen lighting up and John held his breath.<p>

No new messages.

John's heart fell heavily into his stomach. Third day in a row. No new messages. No calls from Sherlock. No text messages from Sherlock.

Nothing from Sherlock.

John fell back on his pillows and threw his arm over his eyes, unsuccessfully resisting the urge to pout.

He was so bloody disappointed. And a little pissed off. He thought he'd done pretty well on Friday. He had held his own with Sherlock, proved himself a normal person who could hold a conversation, taken all of Sherlock's words in stride. Why hadn't Sherlock taken to him? He thought he liked him... he could see the way Sherlock held back his smiles and stifled his laughs. He liked John. He could tell. He thought they were making progress. They had bantered. They had even flirted a little. It had been exciting. At least for John it had been.

John knew he should be offended by Sherlock's parting monologue, but he truly wasn't. If anything, he was relieved. Sherlock read him like a book, picked up on things that John would never want to verbalize if he could help it. Sherlock knew him. And it made things so much easier. John knew his home life was shit and his most recent attempt at a relationship was utterly embarrassing. Telling a romantic interest about those aspects of his life weren't exactly something he looked forward to. With Sherlock, he didn't have to. It was a calming feeling, knowing he wouldn't have to wait for the inevitable conversation about families and past attempts at romance. Sherlock already knew. And even if he didn't know all the details, John could fill in the blanks if he asked. He wouldn't have to tell a long, sordid tale of his pathetic life.

If anything, this made John even more motivated to interest Sherlock. He wanted Sherlock to _want_ to spend time with him, as he much as he wanted to. He wanted the man to consider him someone he could speak with about important things, someone he would think to call up for a bite, someone he could just hang out with. And of course, eventually, someone he'd want to sleep with. If Sherlock wanted to wait and get to know John before they took that step, he was absolutely on board with that. That sounded great.

It was becoming clear that Sherlock chose whom he spent his time with very carefully. He threw up defenses at the speed of light when he thought John got a bit too close, and actively set himself into an iceman in an attempt, it seemed, to test John, see how far he would go before… well he wasn't sure. To see how long he would put up with Sherlock until he snapped? If that was the case, Sherlock was in for a surprise. John only felt himself drawn in more then ever. He found himself becoming a bit desperate to break down those walls, find a way in, become Sherlock's confidant. John was more then a little proud that he was able to see through Sherlock's cold, indifferent front and he felt like that should win him at least somewhat of a friendship. He wanted to be a part of this brilliant man's world. And no response from him after their chat on Friday night felt like a giant step backward.

But Sherlock had never actually said no to John. He had said condescending, frigid things, and never blatantly said yes to John's inquiries. But he'd never said no. John chose to take that as a good sign.

Even with Sherlock's obvious cold demeanor, John liked the bloke. Once he learned to control himself and not lust after him constantly, John found Sherlock kind of amazing. He was incredible to watch during lecture, all long limbed and confident, speaking to the class as though they were much higher level then they were while still making sure they understood. He moved along the front of the room with grace and elegance and a hell of a lot of arrogance. It was incredibly entertaining to watch. Sherlock owned that room and everyone, including the professor, knew it.

And John allowed himself to steal a few minutes every class to allow his eyes to glaze over a bit, bite down on his pen, and let himself imagine what it would be like if that strong, self-assured man agreed to do the things to him he'd suggested the night they met.

Twice, John had bitten his pen so hard it broke.

But now he'd put himself out there. He'd shown up at Sherlock's office hours, he'd brought coffee; he'd given him his phone number.

Maybe he'd misread everything. Maybe Sherlock's ducking head to hide a smile was actually to stop himself from laughing at John. Maybe he just saw him as some dumb kid.

The wheels continued to turn in John's head and with a groan, he dragged himself out of bed and got ready for class, unsure if he was excited or terrified for Chemistry lecture.

* * *

><p>Link dropped down in his chair next to John, setting his bag slowly on the ground. John glanced over at him to find his friend staring gravely at him, looking a bit pale. "You all right?" he asked, raising an eyebrow in amusement.<p>

Link blinked and let out a slow breath. "Um. I… learned some...information this weekend." He was fidgeting, swallowing hard on his words.

John felt a little uneasy, worried his friend was about to have a meltdown. "Okay…what did you learn?"

Link leaned a bit closer. "I saw... I saw Mr. Holmes..." He faltered on the name and John felt his stomach turn over. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know the rest.

"Oh?" he stammered, trying to sound nonchalant.

Link nodded, still looking very nervous. "Yeah, uh... he was... I saw him at Mad Marty's. Well, outside of Mad Marty's."

"Link, spit it out," John said with more edge in his voice then he meant. He knew he didn't want to know… but he had to know.

Link nodded. "I was heading out with some friends and walked by the alleyway next to the club and uh… I saw… I saw Mr. Holmes… and some guy on his knees in front of him."

On any given day, John Watson was a rather calm, collected, cool individual. He was not a raging, foaming at the mouth, quick to temper type of bloke. Things rolled off his back rather easily and he wasn't one to become hysterical quickly. He was not one to become irrationally angry, not one to have a fist prepared prematurely.

Turns out, when it came to Sherlock Holmes, John Watson was all of those things.

He could feel his face turning beet red, fists clenching in his lap, body vibrating furiously. He was going to hit something. Probably not Link, it wasn't his fault, but something or someone.

"Hmm," was the only sound that came from John. Link wasn't looking at him now; he was staring at the front of the room as if lost in thought. John blinked, trying to breath through the rage.

"Right?" Link said coming back to the conversation suddenly. "It was so bizarre...I mean I'd heard rumors but to actually see it... I dunno, it was odd. I mean he's our _teacher._"

John blinked. He'd heard rumors? What the bloody fuck was he talking about? John's vision was blurring at the sides, all this information hitting him like a ton of bricks. He was doing his best to breath silently through it, but he could feel his hands and legs shaking violently.

"Rumors?" he asked hoarsely, thanking god that Link might just be distracted enough not to see John's reaction.

"Yeah," Link nodded vaguely. "I heard he uh... gets around quite a bit."

John felt his blood run cold.

"Yeah. I mean I don't know if anything is true but I heard he fucks some of his students on occasion, and people see him out a lot at clubs. I don't get why the school hasn't flipped out and expelled him."

"Mm," was John's only response. The room was spinning now, Link's voice sounding very far away as he continued.

"Well one of my friends said they let him do whatever he wants since he's like the youngest PhD student they've ever had or something. Since he's only 19 and not some 50 year-old guy, they let him do whatever he wants. I dunno, it's all fucked up."

That comment brought him reeling back to reality. "What? He's 19?"

Link frowned. "Yeah. You didn't know what? He's like some genius, prodigy guy, about to get his doctorate and he's still a teenager. He's like super smart."

And as though on cue, Sherlock swept into the room. Link went rigid in his seat and the ball of anger in John's stomach tightened.

He glared at Sherlock, aware the curly haired man wasn't looking at him but he didn't care. He was furious. That someone else had been on their knees for Sherlock. That Sherlock had allowed someone else to touch him like that. And if Link was to be believed, a magnitude of people had been allowed to touch him like that. And John had been denied that, more then once.

John felt utterly ill.

So apparently, this is what jealousy felt like. No wonder people murdered each other over it.

He closed his eyes and took silent, deep, calming breaths trying to move past this outrageous feeling. Sherlock didn't belong to him, he tried to tell himself. He could do whatever he wanted; choose whomever he wanted to do whatever he wanted with. It wasn't John's business. He opened his eyes again and stared at his desk, trying not to look at his teacher.

He forced himself to focus, trying to sort out all the new information. Link's words replayed in his mind again and then he frowned, looking sharply over at Link. "What were you doing at Mad Marty's?"

Mad Marty's was a gay club in town. Why was Link at...oh.

Oh.

That seemed to pull Link out of his funk and he gave John a knowing look, grinning. "Aw come on mate, don't make me say it!"

"You?" was all John could manage and Link shrugged good-naturedly.

"I like to… dabble," he said, winking at John and turning back to his laptop he's just pulled out of his bag.

Dabble... dabble in men? Jesus, was everyone he knew bi? John wanted to laugh but the jealousy hadn't quite subsided and he stared at his hands in his lap. He shook his head slightly, forcing himself to focus again. He needed to hold onto the information that he'd just gotten.

So Link was bisexual. He made a note to introduce him to Mike. Sherlock was 19. So all that arrogance and esteem that came off him in waves was bullshit. Sherlock was…promiscuous. With everyone but John apparently. And he did it in public. Somehow that felt worse. Why, if Sherlock treated any sort of sexual activity so casually, why wouldn't he sleep with him? John had sworn he'd gotten some sort of positive vibe from him after their discussions… maybe he'd misinterpreted all of it? Maybe he was just some dumb virgin who didn't know how to read signals. Maybe John wasn't good enough to be counted among Sherlock's sexual conquests.

Another rejection to put on his growing list. And this one hurt just a little bit more. Because it was one thing for Sherlock to not want to date him, that he could understand, even if it hurt. But to not want to fuck him when he was already fucking half the town? That somehow felt worse. Like John wasn't even good enough for a single shag. Like Sherlock could be bothered with everyone else _but _him.

It hurt more then it should have.

John felt sharp eyes on him and he looked up before thinking, meeting Sherlock's cool silver stare. He held his gaze for a moment and then Sherlock was turning back toward the class.

"Alright everyone. Pop quiz."

****I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it. Please let me know your thoughts!****


	5. Chapter 5

****I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it. Thank you for the feedback and support so far, I really appreciate it! I'm going to try to update a bunch this weekend, hopefully a few chapters, so be on the look out!****

John threw open the door to his flat, slammed his book bag on to the table and stomped to the kitchen. He'd made it through his classes for the day and he needed a drink. Badly.

He yanked open the fridge and huffed in frustration as he glared at the eggs and milk that stared back at him. "Why do we not have any fucking alcohol in this place?" he muttered to himself.

"I may have drank it all this weekend," Mike's tired voice came from behind him and John whirled around, falling back into the fridge and yelping as he lost his balance. Mike laughed then threw out a hand to help him up.

"Jesus _Christ_, you scared me," John murmured, grabbing Mike's hand and pulling himself up, trying to calm his nerves down as he steadied himself again. "Why are you here? Shouldn't you be in class?"

"Eh, yeah, I skived off for the afternoon," Mike said with a wave of his hand. "I needed to sleep a bit after my wild weekend." He wiggled his eyebrows, stretching his arms and yawned exaggeratedly. John glared at him.

"It's the second week of school, Mike."

Mike held up his hands in a defensive position. "Woah, sorry mum, didn't know you were the attendance police. I won't do it again, I swear."

John rolled his eyes and turned back to the fridge, hoping a beer had magically appeared in the last minute.

"What's your deal? You look like you want to punch something or someone and seeing as I'm the only one here, I'm hoping you choose the former."

"Nothing," John muttered, throwing the fridge door shut and stalking to the cabinet, deciding tea would have to suffice.

"Uh oh," Mike said casually, sitting down at their small table and settling his elbows on it, cradling his chin in his palms. "What did Sexy Chemistry Teacher do now?"

If John weren't a raging maniac at the moment, he would have laughed. He'd told Mike all about Sherlock being his teacher and the chat they'd had on Friday and now was regretting it just a bit. He really didn't want to tell his best friend the guy he had it bad for was fucking other people on a regular basis while refusing to give John a go.

John didn't respond, refusing to turn around as he steeped his tea.

Mike groaned behind him. "Oh fuck. You know, don't you."

John gripped the hot mug in both hands and slowly turned to find Mike rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Know what?" he said calmly, although he was sure he knew the answer.

Mike sighed. "You know Sherlock…gets around a bit."

John froze, that familiar surge of emotion he'd been experiencing all day pumping through his body, ricocheting off his veins and throwing him off balance all over again. He didn't move.

Mike ran a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath. "Yeah, I heard some stuff over the weekend about him. It's pretty well known around here I guess. Look I know you've developed some weird infatuation with the guy but he's bad new, John. Seriously, that has to be your proof right there."

"You don't know anything about him," John snapped before he could stop himself.

Mike raised his eyebrows. "And you do? John, you met the guy a week ago. He clearly only wants one thing from you. Why would you want someone like that who gives it up to everyone? You're better then that mate."

"Not everyone," John muttered under his breath. Mike didn't seem to hear him.

"John, you're a nice guy. Don't settle for shit like that. Sherlock would only hurt you and probably give you some sort of disease."

John kept his expression in check as the fury overtook his insides again, forcing himself to keep a mask of indifference on his face and conceal his inner craze. He couldn't understand his need to defend Sherlock so vigorously as though the words would shatter his illusion of his gorgeous Chemistry teacher. In truth, they probably should. Mike was only trying to protect his friend and it drew a deep ache in John's belly, knowing Mike was right and doing his best not to hate him for it.

John made some sort of noncommittal noise, not wanting to partake in this discussion any longer.

"Okay, how about you go indulge your sulk for a bit and then we can go grab a pint. I'll tell you all about my weekend and you can drown your sorrows. What do you say?"

John's lips quirked at how well his best friend knew his habits, but he couldn't fully commit to the smile. He shrugged instead. "Fine. I'll be out in an hour."

Mike grinned. "Perfect."

John trotted down the hall to his room and closed the door quietly, locking it behind him. He flopped on the bed, curled a pillow under his head and kicked off his shoes.

What a fucking child he was. Letting himself believe he could be something special to Sherlock, something interesting and different. That's what Sherlock had become to him. Something new, something exciting. He cherished every interaction, every exchange they had. How had he let himself believe the feeling mutual?

Hi scolded himself for being so foolish.

John rolled over on his bed and did his damnedest to not think about Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

><p>It had been a very deliberate move, thoroughly thought out and decided upon. Sherlock paced his office as he tried to convince himself, yet again, that he had done the right thing, that he had made a good choice, a strong choice, and one that was for the best.<p>

That niggle in the back of his mind reared up and drown his convictions so quickly it made his head spin.

He'd been wrong.

He'd been going over their conversation from his office hours for the last three days and had been so angry with himself for letting his guard down, for letting himself fall into comfortable almost flirtatious chat. John had revealed a little more about himself, gained courage and strength and a little forwardness and Sherlock had enjoyed every new piece of information he obtained. John had only become more interesting, more fascinating and a hell of a lot more sexy. Sherlock found himself wanting more and more.

Even though he bloody knew better.

He had involuntarily warmed to John, making a spur of the moment decision that being friends with John Watson would be all right. He could handle it. It would be fine.

Within an hour of John leaving his office, Sherlock had determined how fundamentally stupid that decision had been. He couldn't be friends with John. He couldn't be anything with John. It was unsafe. John shouldn't be wasting his time with Sherlock. He should be out there in the world, finding someone who could take care of him, protect him, show him how much he was worth. Because Sherlock couldn't.

He needed it to be clear to John that they could not carry on further. So he hadn't called him. And somehow he knew it wouldn't stop at that. John had found his confidence and he would want to break in further. Sherlock not calling most likely wouldn't deter him too much. He needed to seal it off entirely, force John to recognize how badly matched Sherlock was for him, friends or otherwise.

How had he miscalculated so spectacularly? He'd gone over his scheme several times before putting it into action. Public sex. John's friend sees. Tells John. John has an epiphany that Sherlock is not worth his time, feeling disgusted and appalled at Sherlock's behavior. John backs off.

Such a simple and elegant plan, which had been executed perfectly.

But John hadn't reacted at all the way he was supposed to. John wasn't supposed to radiate jealousy, as though Sherlock had given something to someone else that was supposed to be John's. He wasn't supposed to be furious and almost _possessive_ as though Sherlock belonged to him. He wasn't supposed to feel hurt. He wasn't supposed to _care_.

It wasn't supposed to turn Sherlock on so fucking much.

Sherlock had had to call a pop quiz just so he could sit and stare and think and deduce and…revel in John's deeply reddened face and clenched fists, doing his very best not to look at Sherlock again. It stirred something inside his belly, a small something coiling in his lower half, tightening as he tried to fight it. Another version of a flushed John Watson had blazed in his mind and Sherlock had bitten the inside of his lip.

He knew it was wrong to take pleasure in this but he was finding out more and more that when it came to John Watson, it didn't matter if he knew better or not. The careful control he held over himself waivered around this one boy. He needed to rectify that.

Sherlock had thought his plan would be mutually beneficial. He would get John to back off and finally understand. And then he would remind himself how enjoyable meaningless sex was.

When Sherlock found himself gripping the stranger's hair behind the club, wishing desperately that it were blond fringe between his fingers and deep blue eyes staring up at him, he'd willed himself to stop thinking altogether.

The blowjob was fine. The orgasm was mediocre.

And suddenly he couldn't remember why he'd always gotten off on this. Of course, there was always the element of new information and new data, but there had also always been excitement, a little bit of danger and the prospect of new ways in stimulation.

And just like that, he no longer wanted to experiment.

He wanted to teach.

And there was only one student he was interested in tutoring.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock was out of his depth completely. John wasn't like everybody else. He was so different. So gloriously, intriguingly different. How could anyone not see that? How could anyone have rejected John? Like that stupid boy from his hometown… Sherlock would need more data on that.

He didn't want to just fuck John, although that thought was pleasing all by itself. He almost thought he could maybe want…

Sherlock shook his head almost violently and reprimanded himself angrily. He pushed all of those thoughts aside and forced himself to focus.

He'd done what he needed to do. He'd done what was best. He dropped into his chair, nodded sharply to himself and forced himself to accept that his plan had been successful.

There. That should keep John away.

* * *

><p>He knew it was a bad idea. He'd wrestled with it for two long weeks, not helped by the fact that he'd seen him six times in those two weeks, demanding his attention at 8 AM with his sharp features, fitted suits and deep, sultry voice as he glided back and forth in front of the class.<p>

So when John sauntered by Sherlock's office on Friday afternoon for the third time in two weeks, he really should have known better. He'd had all the time in the world to think it through and not creep by his TA's office, debating going in but chickening out every time. He felt silly for his over-reaction to his newfound knowledge of Sherlock's personal life. It was none of his business. It didn't matter what Sherlock did. He had the right to do whatever he wanted.

At least, that's what John told himself over and over for two straight weeks. He hadn't quite decided if he believed it yet.

And so he'd convinced himself of something else. If he couldn't be Sherlock's lover or partner, he would be Sherlock's friend. He would get over his stupid little crush and move on because the very thought of not spending time with Sherlock made him extraordinarily anxious and sad and borderline panicked and he couldn't stay away from him. He didn't want to.

Even if Sherlock did get around as much as both Link and Mike had led on, that didn't mean they couldn't be friends. Sherlock obviously didn't want him in that way. John still wanted some sort of relationship with him, even if it wasn't romantic or sexual.

So he planned to explain it to Sherlock. He would apologize for his attempts at flirting, and his stupid request to call him as though they'd go on a date. He would let him know he wasn't looking for anything more then friendship and would like to just hang out casually, even if that meant seeing each other only at his office hours, he could deal with that. He'd make it clear that he would back off entirely and try not to make Sherlock uncomfortable with his lame attempts at flirting or teasing and remain completely behind the line of friendship. He'd essentially grovel for his behavior from the weeks before and see if Sherlock would accept.

He'd planned it meticulously so as to walk into Sherlock's office at the very end of the hour. That way, he could be sure no students would come in and maybe catch Sherlock off-guard a bit, maybe get him to soften just a tad, maybe get him to accept his apology.

Although seeing as this was John's third attempt at this, he really wasn't sure if he'd ever get up the courage to say all of that. Or even get up the courage to go inside.

It wasn't that he was nervous to say these things; it was that he didn't mean them. He didn't want to just be friends.

But seeing as that was his only option, he would take what he could get.

John leaned against a tree opposite of the building that held Sherlock's office and waited. He checked his watch just as the big hand hit the top the hour and prepared himself to saunter as casually as possible into the building when his Chemistry teacher burst through the front doors, and strolled with determination, not even throwing a glance in John's direction. John froze, unsure if he should take off after him, call out his name or go home and consider this a terrible plan to begin with.

John didn't do any of those things.

Instead, he held back until Sherlock was a good distance away.

And then he followed him.

He couldn't say why he'd chosen to do it, and was well aware of how creepy this was but he was curious as hell. What did Sherlock do outside of school besides let random guys give him head in a dark alley? That thought made a fine tremor of anger shimmy its way down John's body and he forced himself to shake it off. No time for jealousy now. He'd promised himself he'd get over it.

Sherlock darted quickly behind a building and John hurried to catch up, letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding when he rounded the corner and caught sight of the man still a good ways ahead of him. John's body thrummed with questions as he hurried along, nerves and excitement pounding in his veins. Where was Sherlock going? What did he do after class was over? What was he like when he wasn't teaching or sitting in his office? These questions had hung in the back of John's mind for weeks, and while he knew what some of Sherlock's extracurricular activities involved, he was positive he didn't know the half of it.

He could feel his adrenaline pumping in his ears as he hustled after Sherlock, ducking behind buildings and crossing streets, blindly stumbling along, guided only by the slender figure in front of him. John wondered if he was just simply following Sherlock home, and tried not to laugh. Maybe the man was just going in for the night. So John would find out where he lived. And then what? Show up on his doorstep like some poor sod looking for company? This felt more and more idiotic as he crept along behind those dark curls that seemed to be haunting him.

As John rounded one more corner, he stopped in his tracks and watched silently as Sherlock chucked his book bag over a fence, then hoisted himself up and over in one fluid motion, swinging his long legs underneath to catch his landing as he steadied himself on the other side. John gaped at this odd and seemingly natural action for the man as Sherlock scurried away to the house the fence encompassed.

John approached the fence and glanced between the bars, gripping one in each hand as he squinted after him, deciding this may be a bit too far. He couldn't hop a fence when he was blatantly following someone. That had to be over the line, right?

But he couldn't tear his eyes away from Sherlock, intent on finding out what he was doing. He watched through steel bars as Sherlock approached a door on the side of the large house, and crouched before it. He pulled his bag close to him and pulled out a black rectangle that John couldn't quite make out before it vanished behind Sherlock's frame. John cocked his head, fascinated, and a little nervous, anticipation rushing in him, thrilled to find out more about his teacher.

Sherlock raised his gloved hands to the door handle and John caught a glimpse of two silver objects sliding into the lock. Sherlock's hands worked delicately, twisting and turning quickly and efficiently and John narrowed his eyes. What was he…

Oh no.

Oh Christ.

The bastard was breaking in to the house.

John's face felt suddenly hot as he realized he was watching a crime take place. Before he knew what to do, Sherlock stood, picked up his bag, pushed open the door and slipped into the building.

John waited for only a second more before he turned and walked slowly back the way he came, cold with shock, unsure of what else to do with himself and suddenly feeling very exposed out in the open.

He mind was absolutely reeling.

What the hell was that? He just witnessed his Chemistry teacher breaking and entering, an obviously illegal activity. John's heart pounded in his chest, the realization of what he just witnessed hitting him hard and he considering running back to his house, but kept his walk steady, careful not to draw attention to himself. He was racked with panic and fear and so many bloody questions…and maybe just a little excitement.

Okay, a lot of excitement.

How thrilling it had been to watch Sherlock Holmes break into a house. Why was that not terrifying? Shouldn't that be uncomfortable to see? What if he were a murderer? Or something else horrible?

John felt his gut try to twist in fear but the blood pounding in his body kept it at bay. He tried not to grin. It was positively exhilarating. And now he had another tiny piece of knowledge of this fascinating man in his life. Another fact, a secret he had that he would keep safe.

John took a deep breath to stop himself from panting.

"Why did you stop at the fence?"

John whirled around, a cold panic settling itself inside of him as he met Sherlock's cool clear gaze. The fear knot in his stomach staked its claim as Sherlock strolled toward John calmly. John could only stare back.

"Seeing as you made it all the way here," Sherlock continued without letting John respond, "why stop at the fence?" His eyes raked over John for a moment. "You're not that short. You could have made it over. Why not join me?"

John could feel the color draining from his face, unsure of how to respond, unsure if he _could_ respond. He gaped upward, losing himself in those silver eyes.

Then he caught it. Sherlock's eyes shifted a little darker, excitement dancing and sparkling within them, no anger or fear lurking in the background, only genuine curiosity. He was grinning gleefully as he spoke and John couldn't miss the amusement and enjoyment Sherlock was getting out of this.

"Why not join you in breaking into someone's house?" John tried to ask this as though indignant, but the smile tugging at his lips gave him away. Sherlock grinned wider, obviously catching it.

"Oh, come now John. You followed me from campus to an undisclosed location, darted around several blind corners, unaware of what awaited you on the other side, and a little lock picking is what made you hesitate? And you call _me_ boring."

John took a moment to look over Sherlock. He was practically vibrating with elation, his hands flying around wildly as he spoke, a genuine smile plastered on his face. It was a very new and very nice look on him that John had never seen before and he couldn't stop himself from returning that smile.

"I'm not boring! I just… well I didn't want you to see me following, an absurd pipe dream I now realize."

"John, do you truly believe I would go to someone's house and break in without picking up on my surroundings first?"

John's brow furrowed. "So why did you let me see you do it then?"

Sherlock grinned. "To see how you would react. Quite impressive, actually. No gasping or running away. You continue to surprise me."

John felt a small warmth burrow itself into his chest. He impressed Sherlock. He'd surprised Sherlock. John bit the inside of his lip to keep from smiling harder.

Then Sherlock was moving around him, heading back the way they came. "Well, come on then," he tossed back over his shoulder.

John took the steps to catch up with him before he thought about it, saying in the process, "And why should I be going off with a thief?"

"How do you know I stole something?"

"Didn't you?"

Sherlock grinned. "Maybe."

"Then answer my question."

Sherlock thought about that for moment then responded, "Is it considered thievery when the items belonged to you in the first place?"

"You were stealing back something that someone stole from you?"

Sherlock grinned. "Something like that. Although, my brother always has thought everything that was mine also belonged to him. He has no imagination, really."

John's eyes widened. "You have a brother? That was your brother's house?"

"Mycroft Holmes," Sherlock supplied. "Miserable bastard."

"Older or younger?"

"Seven years my senior. Although he likes to behave as though he's much older and much wiser, which is absolutely not the case."

"And you break in to his house often?"

Sherlock glanced at him, his lips twitching. "Once or twice."

John stared ahead, gaping slightly. "So there's two Holmes in this city. That's rather a terrifying thought," he giggled.

"Please, I am _nothing_ like my brother," Sherlock scoffed.

"Oh, so he's not a 19-year-old genius in the process of getting his PhD?"

John didn't miss the quirk of Sherlock's lips. "Well done, John," Sherlock said. "You did your research I see?"

"Yeah, and now that I know, I'm a bit put off that you like to treat me like I'm some kind of moron. I'm only a year younger then you, that's hardly enough age difference for you to be so arrogant."

Sherlock stopped, that excited gleam back in his eye as he turned to John. "My perceived arrogance isn't about age, John, it's about intellect. My mind is far more superior then most."

John rolled his eyes. "Alright, it's not like I don't have a brain in my head."

"That is true. And you are intelligent in your own right. You get excellent marks in school in a difficult program. But are you clever John? Really clever?" Sherlock was grinning again and John narrowed his eyes.

"I believe the answer here is no, according to you. Are you wildly clever, Sherlock?"

The pointed look Sherlock gave him made John laugh out loud. "Alright, I concede," John said throwing his hands up as they kept walking. "You are the cleverest boy in school."

"You're not wrong," Sherlock replied.

The ease John felt in this conversation was almost flooring compared to their previous encounters. It was the first time John actually felt like they _could_ be friends. He could move past the lusting and crushing and dirty thoughts and move onto a nice friendship. He could do it. He could have Sherlock in his life.

"Alright so you're a teenage prodigy getting a fancy degree who breaks into his brother's home to retrieve his own items. What else should I know about you?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Are you attempting to get to know me, John?"

John smiled, not looking over at Sherlock as they continued the walk back. "Maybe. That's what friends do, don't they?"

"Is that what we are?"

John nodded once determinately. "Yes it is. Look I know I was a little…I dunno, forward in your office a few weeks ago and I just wanted to say I'm sorry. I get it now, and I'll back off on that front but I'd still like to be friends. Real friends. Not fake 'let's hang out until you agree to shag me' friends."

John stole a glance at Sherlock and deflated a little at the relieved look on his face. So that was it then. Sherlock really wasn't interested in him at all like that. Then what was with his comments at the party the night they met?... No, he was not going to start spinning his wheels down this path again. It was completely useless. He shook his head.

"So let me tell you a little about myself," John continued on before Sherlock could respond.

"I already know all about you, John," Sherlock sniffed as though put off by the notion that he hadn't already figured out John's entire story.

John grinned. "I don't doubt it. But let me tell you anyway. It's what friends do."

Sherlock glanced at him as they continued walking. "Fine," he said finally as he slid his hands into his pockets. John silently appreciated how relaxed he looked, still slightly vibrating from the rush of the break-in and felt a bit chuffed that he was getting a rare glimpse of Sherlock Holmes clearly in his element. It was fascinating. He smiled.

"Right, okay then. Umm, I'm from a little town a few hours from here. I have an older sister, Harry who lives a few hours in the opposite direction of home. I like running and keeping in shape after playing rugby for most of my life. I'm rather thrilled to be in London, I'd never been outside my hometown until I moved here not a month ago and it's everything I expected it to be. I cannot leave the house in the morning until I've had my morning tea. I absolutely cannot wait to officially be a doctor in a few years and I've toyed with the idea of joining the army, although that is still up for debate. Oh and I can't stand your Chemistry class, it's positively dreadful."

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and turned to him, a look of horror on his face. "What?"

"Dreadful. Utterly awful, I can hardly drag myself out of bed for it. The teacher is terribly boring."

Sherlock stared for a moment longer then his features contorted to confusion. "Are you having me on?"

John grinned.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but John didn't miss the amusement in his eyes as they continued walking.

"So, that's me," John said with a shrug.

Sherlock snorted. "Not even close."

It was John's turn to roll his eyes. "Okay, what did I miss?"

Sherlock thought for a moment, then: "What happened with your most recent attempt at a relationship?"

John's felt his face flush. "Why would you ask me that?"

Sherlock cocked his head. "I'm curious. I have some theories."

"You and your theories," John groaned. "We're getting on so well, Sherlock, don't spoil it by making me talk about something so utterly humiliating."

"There's no reason to be humiliated, John. We're friends now. Don't friends talk about things like this?"

John smiled at that and sighed. "Fine. But after this, you have to tell me something about you. Deal?"

"Alright."

John tucked his hands into his pockets to keep from fidgeting and took a deep breath.

"It was a stupid crush I had on a guy I worked with back home. I thought he was into it but he wasn't. I told him at the end of the summer. He didn't want... he didn't reciprocate. Pretty simple."

Sherlock frowned then shook his head slightly. "That must have been...difficult."

"I mean, better I know, right?"

"What made you think he reciprocated your feelings before you told him?"

John cocked his head in thought. "Um…that's a good question. I really don't know. I thought... I guess I thought we had- I mean we got on well for three months and he was always helping me with my work and-" John laughed bitterly all of a sudden. "God, it sounds bloody moronic now that I'm saying it out loud."

"Why?"

It was an honest question and John looked up into Sherlock's curious gaze. John shrugged. "I think I read more into it then was actually there to begin with you know? I probably came off like a desperate fool."

Sherlock scoffed. "Oh, I doubt that very much, John." He paused. "Was he polite with the rejection?"

John bit his lip for a moment. Jake hadn't exactly been rude but he certainly hadn't been polite. He'd just stared at John for a long moment, face going white and simply responded with a mumbled 'I'm sorry.' John didn't need to hear the rest before he was fumbling his own apology, then turned and ran. He hadn't seen or spoken to Jake after that. "He wasn't... he didn't..." John had no idea how to describe Jake's reaction.

"He doesn't sound like a very intelligent boy," Sherlock murmured next to him. John was a bit startled by that response and his cheeks heated up. He tried to laugh but it came out more choked and hesitant.

"I'm sorry, I'm prattling on about something that is hardly even worth talking about." He glanced down at his feet when Sherlock didn't respond. They walked in a comfortable silence, John lost in the memory of his imagined summer romance for a moment. How had he been so wrapped up in Jake when they'd hardly even flirted. They were just friends. That was it. John kicked himself for what felt like the hundredth time as he replayed all of their time over those three months. How he'd misread everything was still so embarrassing.

"Okay," he said shaking his head out of the fog of his thoughts, "your turn."

"My turn?"

"Your turn to tell me something about you. Like do you have interests or hobbies or other siblings or parents?"

"Don't be daft, John. Of course I have parents."

John chuckled. "What are they like?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Like normal parents."

John snorted. "Oh yeah? What's that like?"

He regretted the words as they left his mouth. Why had he said that? Could he sound any more like a whiny, petulant child feeling sorry for himself during his first real, honest conversation with Sherlock? Come _on_.

"Sorr-" he started, but was cut off by a hand on his shoulder. They both stopped walking and John glanced up at his friend.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said sharply. "That... I shouldn't have said that."

John blinked at the sincerity in his voice. "It's alright," he responded softly, trying not to focus all his thoughts on where Sherlock's fingers connected with his body.

Seeming to have read his mind, Sherlock cleared his throat and dropped his hand. "I play the violin," he said abruptly and started walking again.

John smiled and followed, appreciating the change in conversation. "Really?"

Sherlock nodded. "My whole life."

"Are you any good?"

Sherlock snorted as though that should be obvious.

John laughed. "Of course you are. Well now we each know a little more about the other. Now I think we can officially be friends."

They approached Sherlock's office building and John felt a slight dread creeping up his spine, knowing their impromptu meeting was about to come to a close and wishing so badly that it didn't have to.

"Well," Sherlock said, gliding to a stop. "This is me."

"Right," John said awkwardly. "Um... have a good weekend."

"You too, John."

John glanced up to see Sherlock staring down at him, humor settling in his features. John grinned back and rolled his eyes. "Just being polite."

"I can see that," Sherlock smirked.

"Evening, Sherlock." John giggled and forcing himself to turn away, knowing if he didn't he may follow his teacher back into his office and go back on all the promises he'd made to himself earlier.

"John?"

He turned back too quickly to not seem eager. Sherlock was kind enough not to mention it. "Yeah?"

Sherlock looked a bit unsure of himself, shifting his weight to his other foot and looking around at anything besides John. "See you, uh, next week then?"

John stared blankly for a second. Of course. He would see him next week, in class. That seemed like an obvious thing for Sherlock to ask seeing as he didn't seem to be one to waste time asking trivial questions.

Then it hit him. Next week… Next Friday? For another…meet up? Sherlock nodded minutely as he watched John catch up to the meaning of his words. John bit the inside of his cheek to keep the telling smile from spreading brightly across his face.

"Yeah, absolutely."

Sherlock's eyes softened a bit, but he didn't smile. "Right, then. Good evening John."

John walked back to his flat feeling lighter then he had in months.

****I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it. Thank you for the feedback and support so far, I really appreciate it! I'm going to try to update a bunch this weekend, hopefully a few chapters, so be on the look out!****


	6. Chapter 6

****I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it.****

"I don't like it."

John glanced up from the beer he was nursing to his best friend across the pub table. "Umm.., okay?"

Mike was glaring at him intently. "It's too weird. You're getting too wrapped up."

John frowned. "What are we talking about exactly?"

Mike's eyes darkened. "Don't play dumb. You go see him for hours every Friday night, come home with a slaphappy grin on your face every time like you're some kind of smitten girl. What, does he just have you bent over his desk for all that time?"

God that sounded incredible.

John forced himself to snort. "Are we talking about Sherlock?"

"Are we talking about Sherlock," Mike mimicked in a whiny voice, "Of _course_ I'm talking about fucking Sherlock you tosser. I don't like it, John. Why are you settling for someone who is also fucking the entire city?"

John rolled his eyes. "We're not fucking. We're friends," he said, doing his best not to sound disappointed in that fact.

"No, you and I are friends. I imagine things would be pretty uncomfortable in our flat if you looked at me the way you look after spending time with him."

"Will you cut it out with the dramatics? It's all fine, nothing is going on."

Mike gaped at him. "John. You've spent the last four Friday nights couped up in your creepy Chemistry teacher's office until all hours. That's a whole month this has been going on. It's just-it's bloody odd. What do you even talk about?"

Everything.

Nothing.

It was too complex to explain. Too complicated to define.

Too sacred to even want to.

Every Friday evening, John would drop in to Sherlock's office at 5pm sharp, two coffees in tow. Sometimes Sherlock would smile and waive him in. Sometimes he'd grunt a hello and refocus on what he was doing. Once John had walked in on him yelling at someone on his mobile, then refused to explain when John asked what that was all about.

John would settle in to his chair across from the teacher's desk and somehow the conversation always found itself.

Sometimes John would have a topic already on his mind. Sometimes Sherlock would. Sometimes Sherlock would ask random questions, prompting a lengthy discussion about a topic John had hardly ever thought about in the first place. Sometimes they'd sit quietly, John would do homework and Sherlock would grade papers.

They often talked about John, Sherlock asking rather personal questions much like the day of the break-in. At first, John was wary of answering, but found himself responding anyway. As though he knew he was safe to say whatever and Sherlock wouldn't judge him. It was an odd and very freeing feeling. No one had ever shown interest in him like that before. It was nice.

Very rarely they talked about Sherlock. John tried a few times, receiving one or two word answers, then dropped his attempts altogether. It became an unspoken agreement then John's life was on the table, and Sherlock's was absolutely not.

Sometimes they talked about nothing of significance.

It was wonderful.

Link slid into the bar stool next to Mike and took a swig of his beer. "Sorry I'm late." He glanced around the bar and grinned. "Actually, I'm not that sorry at all. What did I miss?"

"The age old question my friend," Mike said dramatically, settling an elbow on Link's shoulder. "What does John Watson see in Sherlock Holmes to be spending all this time with him?"

"Ah, of course," Link nodded seriously, "The Chemistry Teacher Enigma."

John rolled his eyes. "Come on, don't encourage this. I should have known better then to introduce the two of you."

Link laughed and he and Mike clinked their beers together in a mock-cheers.

"I really have no answers as to why our sweet little Johnny here is wasting his precious time on our mysterious TA," Link said. "Maybe for a good grade?"

"Nah, our boy is far to good to stoop to that level," Mike answered as John opened his mouth to retort.

Link smirked. "True. So he must actually like the bloke. Which concerns me because he's kind of a scary guy. All intimidating and serious. I get why people want to fuck him but I think you're the only one to actually spend time with him."

John perked up a bit at that, swelling with pride. "Really?"

Mike was staring at Link in disbelief. "You _get _why people want to fuck him?"

Link grinned. "Oh yeah! All domineering and serious? I bet he's a firecracker in bed. Or in the back alley of a club. Or in a taxi. Or anywhere really."

"Well, I wouldn't know," John mumbled into his beer.

Mike dragged his shocked stare from Link to John and narrowed his eyes. "Oh... but you want to, don't you?" He tossed his hands in the air in exasperation. "God dammit, Link, help me out here."

Link straightened in his seat and forced a stern look. "John. You are no longer allowed to spend time with our teacher because it makes Mike very uncomfortable. Do you understand young man?"

John laughed. "Piss off."

Mike rolled his eyes. "I hate both of you. Look, all I'm saying is don't put all your eggs in one basket with this guy, okay? Don't waste time pining after him. Keep your options open."

"I literally spend one night a week with him. You act like I'm living with the guy for Christ's sake."

Link cocked his head. "Actually Mike does have a point. We should get you out on the town with us this weekend. I know you've got your office hours date tonight and assuming by this conversation, we won't be able to talk you out of going to that, but tomorrow night we are taking you out my friend." He turned to Mike. "I think it's time we introduce John to his new life as a gay man."

Mike's eyes were practically gleaming. "Absolutely."

John rolled his eyes, trying to hide the anxiety he felt at the prospect of a night out. It was rather silly seeing as John did enjoy going out, but he'd never been out as anything other then Mike's wingman. He didn't approach people and he actively avoided people approaching him. He tried to hide his panic with another long sip then glanced at the clock on the wall.

"I'd better go," he said sliding off the stool.

"Oh yeah, you better. God forbid you keep Sherlock waiting. He might murder you," Mike teased.

Link waved his hand. "Let him go in peace Mike. He can't die tonight." He grinned mischievously. "Because tomorrow, he's bloody in for it."

John glared at his two laughing friends then turned and left the bar, forcing down the anxiety for now. He didn't want that to ruin his time with Sherlock.

He hurried through campus, knowing he was a bit early but he didn't care. He waited all week for these nights, trying to anticipate what they would talk about or what type of night it would be. He gripped the strap of his bag a little tighter as he picked up his pace even more.

John stopped by the coffee shop along his route and picked up his traditional two coffees, then rounded the corner to Sherlock's office.

John approached the door and as he raised his hand to knock, the door swung open almost violently and John jumped slightly with surprise, spilling coffee down his hand and hissing at the pain.

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed as though he wasn't expecting him.

That hurt just a little. It was Friday. John was here every Friday. Was it really that easy to forget?

"Um, hi," John said hesitantly as he took in the sight before him. Sherlock was bundled in a long black coat and a deep green scarf, in the process of pulling on leather gloves. Obviously, he wasn't staying. John's stomach did a somersault. "Sorry, I was just..." That's all he could get out before he realized he couldn't think of an excuse for being there. It had become so natural between them, he didn't know he'd have to make things up to come by anymore.

Sherlock snorted and John glanced up to meet those all-knowing eyes and realized too late all of his thoughts were playing out on his face, Sherlock not missing a single one. John's cheeks burned with embarrassment as he caught the amusement in Sherlock's eyes.

But there was something else there. Something familiar he'd seen before. Sherlock's eyes were wide, irises shifted to a darker green, twinkling with something...anticipation? Excitement? John looked a bit closer and then grinned as he recalled when he'd last seen that look.

"Are we breaking into your brother's house again tonight?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "We?"

John dropped his gaze immediately, feeling foolish. "I mean-"

"Last time I believe you 'chickened out' for lack of a better term, at the fence, correct?"

John tried to force a laugh, unable to meet Sherlock's gaze. "Yeah, but-"

"Well I suppose this would be your chance to redeem yourself then."

John looked up and caught the amusement in Sherlock's words, pursing his lips in an attempt to hide his grin.

"You enjoy watching people squirm, don't you?" John said playfully. Sherlock plucked the coffees from his hand and dropped them in the bin next to the door.

Hey I just bought those-" John started before Sherlock was speaking again.

"Put your bag inside, we're heading out."

John did as he was told, settling his bag on a chair in the office, then turned back and Sherlock herded him out into the hallway to shut and lock his door behind them. He turned and hurried past him toward the exit.

"Come on, John, we've got to hurry."

John took off after him. "We have to hurry to a break-in? What, are we meeting more thieving little brothers there?"

He glanced at his friend, who was smirking harder then normal. "Not a break-in."

John frowned. "What are we doing then?"

Sherlock didn't answer as they burst through the doors onto the street and he threw up his arm to hail a taxi. John knew he should probably be concerned seeing as the last time he saw Sherlock this excited he'd just broken into a house, but he couldn't quite seem to get himself to actual fear. Once again he found himself being led to an unknown location by his Chemistry teacher and he felt nothing but excited anticipation. He got the distinct feeling Sherlock enjoyed a little danger and John was beginning to discover that he might, too.

A taxi pulled up in front of them and Sherlock placed his hand on the small of John's back and gently pushed him toward it. "In you go," Sherlock murmured behind him.

John demanded his brain stop thinking about those fingers touching other places on his body as he scrambled in, Sherlock following close behind.

They settled into the cab and Sherlock directed the cabbie to their destination, then tore his phone from his pocket and began tapping quickly, his eyes flicking across the screen, blazing as he read.

"Alright, do I get to know where we're going yet?" John asked, trying not to stare at the curly head absorbed in the small device in his hands.

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise without looking up and John sighed, sitting back in his seat. Obviously he wasn't going to be getting any information from the man. He stared out the window as the city past them by, trying not to fidget in anticipation. He was thrilled to be going to do something with Sherlock. He was actually invited, if not explicitly, to do something other then sit in the genius' office, although that wasn't unpleasant. He just wanted more. It was never enough to just sit and talk and pretend their ongoing lives outside of that room didn't matter. He wanted to know more about Sherlock, and experience things with him, be a part of his daily life, a part of his world.

For some reason, this new development seemed like a promising step in that direction and John clasped his hands in his lap, delight buzzing within him.

* * *

><p>Sherlock threw himself around a corner and pinned his body to the wall, John following close behind, panting quietly and flattening himself against the brick next to him. They stood silently for a few minutes. Sherlock stared down at John until he looked round at him and they both fell into laughter.<p>

"Oh my God," John giggled helplessly. "That was by far and away the most ridiculous thing I've ever done in my life."

Sherlock leaned his head back against the concrete, still laughing. "Well you did just fine."

"Do you do that a lot?"

"I just did a lot of things, John. To which are you referring?"

"Stalk people?"

Sherlock smirked. "On occasion."

John laughed. "Well turns out there was nothing sinister about Professor Limon, now was there?"

"John, the man goes to the same exact place for lunch every single day for exactly an hour, pretends to read the newspaper and doesn't look at anyone. He clearly wants to be seen so as not to be implicated in something else going on. What is he hiding?"

"Maybe he likes that lunch place."

"It's never that simple. Didn't we already have this conversation in the bush back there?"

"Well we just followed him for two hours and he didn't do anything out of the ordinary. Why are you so interested in this guy?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I've got several ideas, but I'll wait to narrow them down before I tell you. I need more data." Sherlock glanced up as if disappointed. "Nothing else is on at the moment so I thought it was about time to indulge my curiousity about Professor Limon. Nobody can be that boring, can they? Normally something comes up on my first attempt."

"Normally? You do this a lot?"

Sherlock grinned. "I observe constantly John. If I find someone or something that peaks my interest, I investigate. Sometimes it leads to nothing and sometimes it leads to something spectacular. Everyone has something to hide, and I enjoy finding out what that something is very much."

John laughed. "Okay so if you're doing all this 'investigating' all the time, when do you have time to study?"

Sherlock scoffed. "School is dull. I need something to continue to work my mind, keep my focus on, keep me busy. As I said before, my mental capacities are far beyond average and I treat my mind as a hard drive. I choose what is saved and what is deleted. I think of my mind as a machine that I must constantly work to continue it to function properly. I'd go positively mad if I was unable to achieve that. So I find things I am interested in. Human interaction and behavior is fascinating, and there is endless data to be gathered on the subject. I find observing those around me assists me in honing my skill, deducing quickly and efficiently and finding things out without needing to interact with people directly. It's far more effective then drowning in meaningless conversation with someone I have no interest in. All that matters to me is my mind and what I choose to keep in it. It's the most important thing in the world to me."

Sherlock deliberately chose to leave it at that. No need to tell John about the lengths he went to to keep boredom at bay. Not yet, anyway.

John seemed to choose which part of that to respond to.

"Being a teenage PhD student is dull? And here I thought being a lowly pre-med student was difficult. I must bore the pants off you."

Sherlock frowned. "On the contrary, John. You're quite interesting."

He ignored the flutter in his chest when John's face lit up.

"Is that why you're okay with me stopping in on Fridays? After what you just said, it sounds like you prefer to be alone."

Sherlock raced through his mind to find a response to that without revealing too much. In the end, he chose the cryptic route and went with: "There are several reasons I enjoy spending time with you."

He was pleased when John's features stayed bright. He always appreciated how expressive John's face was.

"Okay so which reason allowed you to let me come tonight?"

"You were at my office."

John's face fell. "Ah, so convenience, then?"

Sherlock cleared his throat uncomfortably. He was hoping John wouldn't ask him questions like this. He felt a bit silly admitting why he'd brought him. Overly sentimental. But he didn't want John to look as disappointed as he did so he did his best to explain.

"Well, I haven't- I mean I've never...had someone like you in my life." He cursed silently at how pathetic that sounded. He tried to shrug and sound casual as he continued. "It seems as though we discuss your life often and you...share a lot. I felt it was only fair that I share what I do. That's what friendship is, correct? An equal involvement of both parties?"

John beamed at him, and Sherlock's heart turned over in his chest. "Thanks," he said quietly. Then he grinned. "It was also fun to show off your skill a little wasn't it?"

Sherlock's lips twitched. "A little."

John laughed and sat back a bit more comfortable now against the wall. "I'm exhausted. How do you do this all the time without falling asleep?"

"Ugh, sleeping. Sleeping's boring, I hardly ever sleep if I can help it."

John raised his eyebrows. "Ever?"

"It's physically impossible to _never_ sleep, John. I kip occasionally when needed, but not often do I fully lay down in my bed and have a full night's rest."

"As a future Doctor, I can tell you with full certainty that that is not healthy."

Sherlock smiled a genuine smile at him, the image of John being a fully certified doctor filling his insides with happy warmth. "Sorry Dr. Watson, I'll try to be better about it."

John was grinning again. "I don't know how you do it. I'm tired just from walking and crouching in a bush for a few minutes."

"No, you're tired because you didn't run this morning, you had several beers after class and your body is expecting the caffeine intake you normally have around this time of day to kick in but seeing as I threw out your coffee, you didn't receive such a kick."

"Okay, now you're just showing off."

Sherlock pushed off the wall and started back toward campus, John following close behind. The adrenaline rush was subsiding a bit as they walked in a comfortable silence, and Sherlock went ahead and let himself drudge up the things he'd been purposefully ignoring, knowing full well it was unsafe to do this while John was near, but unwilling to fight it any longer.

He was all too aware that John would be showing up at his office that night, just like he had for four weeks, two coffees in hand, all smiley and adorable. Ugh, that _word_ again. Sherlock had been waiting for him, anticipating his arrival. He couldn't wait for those hours every Friday evening to gain just a little bit more knowledge about the interesting John Watson he'd become so enthralled with.

He was not so socially inept that he missed John's lingering stares and lengthy goodbyes. He didn't miss the longing looks he received after he let something slip about John being fascinating, clearly pleased with the approval Sherlock gave him. He was well aware that his relationship with John was not what he had anticipated at all.

Over the last month, Sherlock had willed himself to be stronger. Made himself believe that what he felt for John was lust, pure and simple, and that just obviously wouldn't do for what he knew John needed. He wasn't going to sleep with the only person who had ever attempted to get to know him, who let him just be himself when they spent time together. He knew it would be easy to do. John would be willing, and the idea made Sherlock shiver with want. But he had to have more self control then that. He was already allowing a friendship that he knew he shouldn't want happen. He couldn't be that selfish and take that part of John too. He refused to be that selfish. Not with John.

Since that day John followed him to his brother's house, Sherlock hadn't been out. He hadn't gone on the prowl, hadn't found some hot, willing someone to get him off. He hadn't wanted to. The thrill of the unknown in that area had narrowed down in his mind and not just anyone was going to satisfy that, so what was the point?

While Sherlock's groin reacted one way, his brain reacted entirely different. His mind begged for more data, more information, more anything about John. He wanted to talk about John's experiences, his friendships, his shitty family, what he wanted out of life. He wanted to know every part of everything about John, and file it away in his John room inside his mind and keep it forever where no one else could touch it.

He'd asked John so many intrusive questions over the last few weeks, he was surprised every time when John answered them without hesitation. Sherlock knew John assumed this was all to feed an extreme curiosity Sherlock had, but in truth it was that Sherlock actually wanted to know. He wanted the answers. He would do anything for them. Even tell John things about himself. Things he rarely spoke of to anyone.

But he never had to. Because John never attempted to force anything from Sherlock. He simply responded and smiled and waited for the next personal inquiry that was absolutely none of Sherlock's business. He knew it was unfair, but John didn't seem to mind, and Sherlock selfishly allowed it to continue.

He didn't want to spend time with anyone else. He didn't want to sleep with anyone else. He didn't want to know anyone else.

And yet again, reality and truth burned within him, creeping up his spine and over his mind like wildfire, hissing and spitting condescendingly, taunting him like he didn't already know but unable to not listen to the words.

_He needs so much more then anything you could ever give him. You are not affectionate. You are not caring. You are simply not enough._

And just like that, Sherlock stopped on the sidewalk and turned to John. "I'd better head back home," he said flatly. "Thank you for, uh, coming along."

Sherlock resisted the urge to close his eyes so he wouldn't have to see those beautiful blue eyes fall in disappointment. "Oh yeah, sure thing," John responded quickly. "Uh, I left my bag in your office."

"I'll bring it to class on Monday for you."

John nodded then hesitated, seemingly unable to look away from Sherlock. They had this moment every Friday night, where neither of them wanted to say goodbye, although tonight felt more intense seeing as there wasn't a giant barrier between the two of them. Sherlock never realized how safe his was behind his desk. How it kept him from doing things he shouldn't. Tonight they were out in the open, closer then normal, and it would be so easy to pull John to him, press him against a wall, wrench his mouth open and take exactly what he'd been dreaming about. The want for John was almost painful at this proximity and Sherlock cleared his throat, surprising himself at the sharpness of the sound and snapping him back to reality.

"Right. Good evening, John."

Sherlock didn't wait for an answer as he took off in the other direction.

****I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it. ****Thank you for all the feedback, I appreciate it so very much!****


	7. Chapter 7

****I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it.****

John woke early the next morning, body still trembling from the all too familiar dream starring Sherlock Holmes between his thighs. He was better prepared this time, having worn a pair of old boxer briefs he was willing to stain, and rolled over immediately for the flannel he'd put on his nightstand. The dreams were becoming almost a regular occurrence, and John couldn't decide if he loved them or loathed them. It was nice to know that in some universe, a version of Sherlock wanted to touch him like that, but it hurt all the same knowing in his real life he'd never know that feeling.

He felt more and more guilty every time he woke after a night like that. He and Sherlock had become friends. Actual friends who talked and spent time together and got to know each other. Sherlock had even shared something rather personal about himself with John last night and he couldn't have been more grateful to engrain himself a bit more in his teacher's life. They were getting along splendidly and that made John feel all the more like a pervert, having these dirty thoughts about a friend. He made yet another mental note to clamp down on these feelings and thoughts for his friendship's sake.

He finished cleaning himself off and rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the dream and remember what he had in store for today. A feeling of incredible unease settled over him as he recalled his chat with his friends at the pub yesterday afternoon. The impending night out he would be dragged to by his overly confidant friends and thrust, no pun intended, into London's gay nightclub scene, expected to throw caution to the wind had him coming over a bit wobbly. He knew his friends didn't want him to do anything too crazy but he was sure they expected him to act available, show interest, and get a few phone numbers.

John was dreading it.

Which made him angry. This had been the plan all along, hadn't it? Come to London, live openly, experiment, maybe do some irresponsible things, and find out who he truly was. He didn't belong to anyone. He had no loyalties to anyone. Sherlock didn't want him as anything besides a friend, he knew that already. Why couldn't he _want_ to go out and see what was out there and have some fun and who knows maybe meet someone? He humiliatingly admitted to himself that he'd never even kissed someone. Maybe tonight could be that night for him?

He toyed with the idea of just getting gloriously drunk when they got to the club and having to go home early instead. He groaned and kicked the covers from him, rolling off the bed and staggering to his dresser, pulling out his running clothes and tossing them on the bed. A run would clear his head, he was sure of it.

* * *

><p>Sherlock crept quietly along in the early morning drizzle and fog back to his flat, feeling uncharacteristically tired. After days of no sleep and then unexpectedly coming across a robbery in progress after leaving John the night before, Sherlock figured his body was coming down from the rush and he'd have to surrender to a few hours sleep. He tugged his long coat tighter to him, mind still reeling from the night before and he smirked at the memory. He attempted to go through the facts again, cataloging the adrenaline rush, the flash of the knife glittering in his mind, but his brain wasn't responding as sharply as it normally did and Sherlock fought to keep his eyes open, drowsiness washing over him in steady waves.<p>

His phone binged loudly in the quiet of the morning and Sherlock jerked slightly at the sound as though it had just woken him up. He needed to get home before he gave in to the urge to lay down right on the street and have a quick kip.

He attempted to dip his hand in his pocket for his phone, but couldn't quite seem to catch his hand in the fabric, his arms feeling heavy as lead and decided it was too much effort.

He ducked into the park for a shortcut and glanced around, enjoying the quiet, damp atmosphere. It certainly wasn't helping with the grogginess currently trying to pull him under but he felt himself pleased nonetheless. This was one of his favorite times of day. Early enough that people were waking up but had not yet left their homes. Early enough that he felt like the only person in the world. Early enough that a borderline mad adrenaline junkie could make his way back home after an entire night of dangerous activity unnoticed.

Sherlock blew out a heated breath and watched as the hot air mixed with the cold and rain and danced into smoked designs, twisting this way and that. He grinned, wholly pleased with himself after the nights events. He was becoming a bit dazed and continued his trudge home, running his hand threw wet hair, his curls wilting in the light rain. Sleep was all he wanted.

A glimpse of something through the mist caught Sherlock's attention and he turned sluggishly toward the figure, curious but unsure if he was too tired to care. He kept walking. The figure darted back into view through the fog and Sherlock saw a short, blonde boy jogging through the park. Oh Christ. John Watson. Of course.

John ran across Sherlock's sight, not noticing Sherlock in his peripheral vision, headphones stuck in his ears and clearly unaware of his surroundings. Sherlock didn't call out to him. He ducked back into the fog as best he could and rounded widely away from John, wishing to remain unseen. The last thing he needed right now was to deal with the boy he could hardly get off his mind. He wasn't even sure if he could properly speak right now.

Sherlock rubbed his eyes and attempted to step up his pace, proving unsuccessful, but he needed to get home as soon as possible. His limbs felt heavy as though he were dragging them along with him. He felt a strong urge to close his eyes and let his body fall where it may but forced himself to keep his eyes open and keep walking.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock halted as abruptly as the sound of his name coming through the fog, closing his eyes in frustration and almost falling asleep in the process. John must have doubled back, must have had a spot where he ran to then turned around... the lamp post. Of course. That made the most sense. How had he not thought that through? Christ, he needed to sleep. His brain wasn't working properly.

"Uhh, hello?" There was a smile in John's voice and Sherlock considered just taking off, running as fast as he could home. His brain slowly supplied that there was no way in hell he would be able to run at this point in his lethargic state and he wobbled slightly on his feet as he turned back around. John's smile immediately fell as they came face to face. "Jesus, are you okay?"

"Fine. Morning John," Sherlock attempted to sound short but the words came out garbled as though he'd been sedated, and he winced. If his mind hadn't currently been shutting down slowly, he would have appreciated the sight of a sweaty, panting John Watson. Unfortunately, he was currently unable to process anything extra. "Have to go," he mumbled and turned back, blinking hard into the mist and tripping over his own feet.

"Woah, hey," John said, rushing to his side. "Do you need to lean on me?"

Sherlock attempted to snort. "Uh, no, I can walk, thank you." Again, the words all swarmed together.

"Well aren't we cranky this morning," John muttered. "Can I at least walk you home and make sure you get there? You look like you're going to fall asleep on your feet."

Sherlock thought that sounded like a splendid idea and closed his eyes for a moment, swaying in the process. A strong arm wrapped around his waist and he let his weight settle into the grasp.

"Okay, it's okay, I got you," John was murmuring next to him and Sherlock wrenched his eyes open, struggling back to his feet. John's arm fell away immediately. Sherlock yanked his coat to straighten it and let out an indignant huff. It sounded more like a normal breath. He couldn't muster the energy to exhale too hard.

"I'm fine, thank you," Sherlock said, trying to be snarky but failing miserably.

"No, you're really not. Come on, keep walking, it'll keep you awake."

Sherlock nodded and started back toward his flat. He noticed a few paces later that John was at his side. He wanted to stop, turn on him and demand where he thought he was going but at this point, he was too exhausted. He could let John follow him home. He could let John see where he lived. Where he lived with his couch. Mm, his couch.

Sherlock felt his brain going into standby mode. Luckily, his body knew the way home and he walked toward his flat on autopilot. John walked quietly next to him. If Sherlock were more alert, he would have noticed John's constant glances and arm spasms as though to catch him at any moment.

They approached the door to his flat and Sherlock dug into his jacket pocket for his keys. He didn't immediately find them and decided it was a good idea to lean his forehead against the door while he searched, his eyes shutting automatically.

"Here let me," a tiny, far away voice was murmuring and then a tentative hand reached smoothly into his trouser pocket, grazing his thigh.

"Mmmm," Sherlock hummed at the soothing touch. Somehow, it didn't feel intrusive. It felt very nice. Then it was gone and he vaguely heard the scrape of a key entering a lock and then felt himself pressed to a chilled body. "You're cold," he pouted.

He heard a chuckle from the person supporting his weight. "I know sorry, the rain and the sweat are not a great combination for warmth. Come on, let's get you to bed."

"No, no," Sherlock murmured quietly. "Couch. I love my couch."

Sherlock felt the body move away from him and he swayed slightly. Then cold hands were on his cheeks.

"Sherlock? Hey, you need to stay awake for just a minute longer, okay? You're all wet. Let's get you out of these clothes."

That brought Sherlock surging back to reality. He snapped his eyes open again and yanked his coat closed. "No," he tried to say firmly, coming out a bit weaker then he planned.

John's eyes widened at his reaction. "I wasn't going to strip you naked, Sherlock, geez. But you'll catch a cold if you stay in those clothes. Go change." Sherlock eyed him for a moment and John rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to follow you. Go to your room and change. Now."

John's voice and look was firm and Sherlock had no energy to argue. He tried to give a stern look in return, but failed when his eyes instead closed and he turned and trudged back to his room.

Safely inside, he closed the door and stripped off his wet clothes, yanked open a drawer and pulled out pajama bottoms, dragging them onto his lower half with effort. The simple task of removing clothes and dressing again sent him into a dizzy spell again and he glanced at the bed.

Fuck it.

* * *

><p>John did his very best to keep his hands clasped behind his back and his feet in one place. He bit his lip trying to bite back the thrill coursing through him but he was having difficulty; he was <em>vibrating <em>with curiosity. He was in Sherlock's flat. In his _home_. He grinned madly and couldn't keep himself from glancing around, trying to take in every wall and nook and item in the entire place, just in case he never got invited back.

It was an utter disaster inside. Small piles of papers and books lay strewn around the main room, newspaper clippings were tacked to the wall, and the most bizarre objects caught John's eye; a mousetrap, a first aid kit opened and disheveled, a box of nails, a few beakers. He glanced at the couch, the imprint of a tall, lanky body very apparent, and John grinned. Sherlock really did love his couch.

Sherlock's eccentricities were pouring out of every inch of this place, all his odd interests were free to roam here and John absolutely loved it. Sherlock was himself here, truly and wholly. He didn't have to hide or act. He could indulge and enjoy his true self. John had seen most of Sherlock's defense mechanisms and walls put up strategically around himself to keep everyone out, but being here in his flat almost made John feel like the wall of reluctance to embrace John into his life was being torn down. John had big plans to tear them all down and this felt like a big step, even if it was accidental.

John peered into the kitchen, finding a very expensive looking microscope sitting on the table, surrounded by petri dishes and more assorted items. John cocked his head. This was by far the weirdest place he'd ever visited.

And he adored it already.

He fidgeted for a bit longer then glanced at his running watch and frowned. It shouldn't have taken Sherlock this long to change. Maybe he'd decided the bed was a good place to sleep after all? John debated with himself for a few more minutes then made a decision. He couldn't leave Sherlock, not knowing if he were okay or not, not knowing if he was settled and safe and asleep. He didn't want to.

But the way Sherlock had reacted about his clothes made John hesitate. He hadn't even wanted to take off his coat in front of him. John was sure he wouldn't want him barging into his room.

Well, too bad.

John crept down the hall to the only bedroom in the flat and softly knocked. "Sherlock?" he murmured.

He was met with silence. He waited another minute then knocked again.

Still nothing.

He gently twisted the handle and pressed it open slowly, hoping if Sherlock were indecent he would see the motion and stop him if he needed to. "Sherlock, I'm coming in."

When no response came, John pressed the door open fully and peered inside.

His breath caught in his chest the same way it had when he'd first laid eyes on Sherlock over a month ago, as he now stared down at the unconscious version of his friend. Sherlock was laid out on his stomach, arms tucked under the pillow beneath his cheek, wearing only plaid pajama bottoms. John gripped the door handle a bit tighter as he grinned at the sight. He resisted the urge to lay down next to him and run his hand down his back and through those thick curls that lay wet and wilted against the pillow. He didn't want to do anything unwelcomed, but he had an overwhelming feeling to comfort this man, touch him lovingly and make sure he was all right. John reminded himself being sleepy wouldn't kill someone but he'd never seen Sherlock like that and it was a bit frightening. He just wanted to make sure he was okay and if he wasn't, John wanted to be the one to make him feel better.

He stole a glance around Sherlock's room, finding it to be much tidier then the rest of his flat, with the exception of a pile of wet clothes on the floor next to his dresser. John's eyes roamed over the rest of the room again then froze and darted back to the heap of clothing. Sherlock's light blue button down he'd been wearing lay on top of the pile of clothes. There was a smear of tinted red on the rumpled shirt.

John cautiously approached the shirt as though is may be a bomb about to go off, and carefully took the collar between his thumb and forefinger, shaking it out gently to get a better look.

The shirt was slashed clean down the side underneath one of the arms, the tattered fringe of the rip hanging loosely around either side. The smear of red darkened as the shirt unfolded, blotting down either side of the torn fabric, seeping out ominously.

Blood.

Panicked, John stepped toward Sherlock's sleeping form before thinking, his mind racing. Was he bleeding? Was it someone else's blood? What happened? From the angle his was at, there were no visible wounds on Sherlock's back or side. He was facing away from the door and John padded around the bed to the other side hurriedly and there, drawn down the side of Sherlock's abdomen was a thin, dark red cut, as though someone had taken a sharp object and dragged it down Sherlock's perfectly pale side. The blood from the wound was smeared like it hadn't been washed or taken care of and it was difficult to tell how deep it was from the mess around it.

John fumed, unsure if he was angrier at the person who did this or himself for not noticing sooner. He was going to be a doctor for Christ's sake, he should be able to recognize these things. His heart raced in his chest and he darted back to the kitchen, flipping on the sink and wetting a flannel, then began opening cabinets, looking for a first aid kit.

Something had caught his eye when perusing Sherlock's flat and John darted back to the main room to find the kit on a table, opened and rummaged through as though it was recently used. John's stomach dropped a little at that thought but pushed it aside for now, digging into the box and grabbing what he needed.

He hurried back to the room, wet flannel and bandages in hand and carefully sat down next to Sherlock on the bed. He hesitated for only a moment then, very gently, he pressed the cloth to Sherlock's side.

Sherlock murmured quietly, his forehead creasing but not opening his eyes.

"Shh, it's okay, go back to sleep," John soothed, running his hand down his back, attempting to acclimate Sherlock to his touch.

And maybe stealing a touch for himself. It hurt more then he realized to see Sherlock hurt. He wanted so badly to help him.

Sherlock hummed and settled back down and John pressed the cloth down his wound, gingerly rubbing the blood away so he could get a better look. Sherlock shifted in his sleep but made no sound and John ducked down to look closely at the cut.

It was clean and not deep, no stitches needed, and John continued to clean it gently, taking care not to press too hard. He placed several small bandages over the cleaned wound, as Sherlock continued to breathe deeply and evenly, sound asleep. He sighed contently under John's touch and John couldn't help but smile.

This man was utterly beautiful and had been hurt and it took everything John had to leave now wanting so badly to take care of him, but he knew better then to stay. Sherlock wouldn't take kindly to waking up to John in his flat.

He also knew better then to leave a note but he just couldn't help himself.

He found a blank piece of paper in the main room, scrawled his number on the top and below that, wrote:

_Please let me know you're alright. -JW_

* * *

><p>Sherlock lay flat on his back on the couch, fingers steepled under his chin, eyes closed. He breathed deep, then flung his arm out, reached toward the table and felt for what he was looking for. When he came across it, he tore it from it's package, peeled back the paper it was stuck to, pulled up his dressing gown sleeve and slapped the nicotine patch onto his left forearm, seeing as his right was already littered with flesh colored circles. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, contemplating if a real cigarette would do the trick.<p>

He turned his head and glared at the figure in the chair across from him.

"As I was saying?" The man raised an irritated eyebrow and Sherlock sighed dramatically.

"How's the diet, dear brother?" He retorted, turning his head back to ceiling.

"Fine. Now, I was able to keep your involvement unknown from the events of two nights ago. I trust you won't speak of this to anyone? Lestrade obviously knows you were there but he is choosing to look the other way seeing as you assisted in the evidence for the arrest. It will only make him look better for his career goal of becoming a detective. But you cannot continue this…_activity_."

Sherlock didn't respond. He closed his eyes again and waited, knowing Mycroft was far from finished.

"You are not a vigilante, Sherlock, you cannot simply walk into a burglary at random and save the day, so to speak." Mycroft sighed heavily. "That's what the police are for. Let them do their jobs. You need to be focused on school. Enough of these distractions."

Sherlock snorted but made no other comment.

"Now, do we need to discuss your recent, ahem, dalliances with a certain chemistry student?"

Sherlock froze at the mention of John, and while he did his best to recover quickly, he knew Mycroft didn't miss it.

"Oh my, have I struck a nerve? You must like this one."

"His name is John, Mycroft, but I know you already knew that."

"Mm, yes, John Watson. Currently in his pre-medical years, striving to become a doctor. From a rather unimpressive and very neglectful family, no?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

"Oh don't scowl. What are your plans with this young man then?"

"He's my student and we've become friends."

It was Mycroft's turn to snort. "Don't pretend to be obtuse, brother dear, it's a terrible color on you."

Sherlock turned and glared at his brother. "I will handle it."

There was a long silence, then Mycroft rose, scraping his umbrella casually across the floor as he strode to the exit. Sherlock waited, knowing full well his brother would have parting words.

"You know better, Sherlock. I trust you'll do what's right."

As the door closed, Sherlock bit back an irritated growl. He didn't want to give Mycroft the satisfaction, but how dreadful it was to know that even his own brother knew he couldn't give John what he needed. He was sure Mycroft knew all about yesterday morning's incident from his damned cameras placed strategically outside the door of Sherlock's flat. Surely he witnessed John helping Sherlock home, staying in his flat for God knows how long, taking care of him like he was some sort of weakling.

Sherlock silently fumed up at the ceiling, tugging his dressing gown around him. He was debating another patch when he heard a soft knock on his door. He lay very still as though the person on the other side of the door may see him inside, and waited for them to leave.

Another knock came, a bit more insistent this time and Sherlock threw himself off the couch, storming to the door, already planning to tell whatever solicitor was there to bugger off, when he swung it open and found a very pink John Watson standing in his doorway.

"Jesus Christ, finally, it's bloody freezing out here mate," John grumbled, making his way past a shocked Sherlock before he was invited in.

Sherlock frowned for a moment longer then closed his door, noticing that yes it was very cold, and turned back toward the main room to find John making himself comfortable on the couch.

"I brought breakfast," he said nonchalantly, not looking up as he opened the bag he apparently brought with him. "I need to eat something after the night I had. Mike and Link were supposed to take me out and ended up getting too drunk at home to go anywhere. I ended taking care of them all night. Couple a wankers, my friends."

Sherlock stared at him, not moving from the door for a moment and then narrowed his eyes.

"I'm fine, John," he snarled. "You don't need to come here and," he waived his arm at the food, "take care of me. I'm not a child."

John turned to look at him, an amused smile playing on his lips. "I so wish you could see yourself saying that with the way you look right now. How about you sit down and eat?"

Sherlock crossed his arms defiantly. He couldn't allow this to go on any longer. He didn't need to be babied like some ingrate. Yesterday was bad enough. He wouldn't allow it to happen again.

To his irritation, John laughed. "You're really not helping your case," he giggled, and turned back to his breakfast.

Sherlock hesitated, dropping his arms and looking around. What was he supposed to do now? If he defied any longer, it would prove his point wrong, but if he gave in then he lost. Right? Why was everything so confusing with John?

"Eat," John said again, still not looking up as he settled both their meals on either side of the table.

Sherlock scowled once more then stormed to the chair Mycroft had been occupying shortly before and sat down stiffly.

"Would you relax? I just wanted to make sure you were alright. In my defense, I asked you to let me know you were fine and you didn't. What other choice did I have besides stopping by? And no, I'm not checking up on you because you're a child, I'm checking because I'm a big softy who worries about everyone far too much all the time. I'm a gigantic worrier. Does that make you feel better?"

Sherlock glared at him a moment longer, knowing that wasn't the truth at all. John wasn't a worrier for everyone. He was a concerned, kind soul who cared for his friends and who one day would care for his patients. That fact didn't do much to ease Sherlock's irritation but he didn't know what else to do with himself so he started picking at the food John brought.

"Thank you," Sherlock startled himself as he spoke, unaware he was planning to say anything. He took a deep breath. "Yesterday…" he cleared his throat, "That was, um, good of you."

Sherlock didn't look up but could feel John radiating warmth in his direction. He tried to keep himself from blushing, hating how vulnerable he had been and letting John see him like that. He reminded himself for the tenth time not to let it happen again.

"Ah, you would have done the same for me," John said casually, clearly picking up on the fact that Sherlock didn't say things like that easily and trying to ease the tension his words left in the air.

Sherlock pondered that. Would he have? If he saw John stumbling through the park, would he have taken him home? Made him change his wet clothes so as not to catch a cold? Would he have bandaged any injuries John had?

The answer of yes surprised Sherlock. Yes he would. If he had the opportunity to care for John like he had for him the day before, he absolutely would. If John needed him for anything, he would be there. No questions asked. Even the hypothetical thought of something happening to John hurt so deeply to even think about and Sherlock shuddered at that unexpected reaction. And suddenly he was making silent promises to himself. Nothing could ever happen to John. He'd make sure of it.

"Tea?" Sherlock asked abruptly as he stood, needing desperately to distance himself a bit after those realizations he'd just happened upon. He needed to step away for a moment, catch his breath, get himself in control. He'd been so irritated and angry that John had seen him in such a fragile state the morning before. He had been in the process of devising a plan since he woke to gain back the upper hand in their relationship, keep things in his favor, in his control. But now here John sat, showing up with a meal, being his warm, sweet self and making it all seem so _easy_. Easy to care, easy to trust, easy to let his guard down. And Sherlock's fierce thoughts of protection toward this boy, the need to know he was all right was too much. He'd never cared for someone like this. He'd never cared about anything like this.

"Tea sounds great," John was saying as Sherlock took off to the kitchen, his dressing gown flowing behind him as he ducked around the corner. He wasn't even sure if he had tea, but he did have a kettle he could boil water in that he could keep busy with. He flipped it on and took a few deep breaths, closing his eyes and trying to regain his composure as he gripped the counter's edge. He let himself go into his mind for a moment, searching for something else to focus on, something not as heartbreaking as something potentially happening to John.

He was so deep in though, he missed his name being called until a hand was settled on his shoulder and he jumped almost out of his skin at the unexpected contact. He whirled around to find John, all too close, eyebrows creased in concern.

"Are you okay?" John asked softly, his cheeks still twinged pink from the cold, his features soft with worry.

Sherlock's breath caught deep in his chest as he looked down into those dark blue eyes, then found his gaze on John's lips, his own falling open subconsciously. He never wanted anything to happen to this boy. He wanted to him to stay here. Stay with him. Stay safe and sound.

John's pupils dilated at the unexpected attention. "Sherlock," he whispered and that was all it took.

Sherlock's hands came to John's cheeks, desperate to warm the pink out of them and bent his head just enough to capture John's lips with his own. He pressed delicately, feeling how soft they were, exactly like John's lips should feel, brushing over them, caressing them against his own. He took a step closer, pulling John to him as he pressed his lips a bit harder now, slotting John's bottom lip between them and tugging gently. John moaned softly and Sherlock took the opportunity to pry his lips apart, running his tongue across the bottom until he could delve inside, sweeping across John's own tentative tongue and stroking against it, eliciting the softest of sounds from John's lips.

He felt John's fingers digging in to his hips, holding on for dear life, all but melting against Sherlock as he accepted everything he gave him. Sherlock slid his hands down John's neck, feeling the soft grey jumper he was wearing beneath his fingers, so warm and inviting, so _John._ He ran one hand behind John's neck, securing him against him, probing his mouth like his life depended on it and John clung to him, pressing himself harder and harder, desperately keeping up.

Sherlock lifted John onto the kitchen table without thinking and wedged himself between John's thighs. John groaned, spreading his legs welcomingly and gripped tighter, hanging on to Sherlock's dressing gown like he may fall if he let go. Sherlock was almost desperate now, pressing harder and deeper into John's mouth, then his cheek, then his jaw, running his hands all over his body, down his back and to his thighs and then back up. He placed open mouth kisses to John's neck, licking and sucking hard, being driven mad by the sounds coming from John's lips.

"Sherlock," John murmured in his ear like a prayer, gripping at Sherlock's neck, one hand sliding into Sherlock's hair. "I've w-wanted this since the first t-time that I saw you."

And just like that, John's words cleared Sherlock's lust hazed brain. Those almost dirty but just sweet and innocent enough words brought him right back to reality, right back to why this was the absolute wrong thing to be doing, right back to why he was all kinds of wrong for John.

The voice was back. Screaming and taunting, reminding Sherlock of all his inadequacies, all the things he could never give, not because he didn't want to but because he couldn't. Reminding him that even Mycroft knew how deeply he would fail John Watson if they went down this road. Reminding him that he would never ever be enough.

He jerked back and stared into John's wanting, trusting blue eyes and turned away, internally cursing and slapping himself.

"S-Sorry," John stammered. "I thought-"

"I can't," Sherlock cut him off, throwing a shaky hand against the wall to steady himself. "Don't you see, John I-...I can't give you a proper relationship."

John cleared his throat and slid off the table with a soft thud. "Hey," he said, a forced laugh following the word, "you know, we're just... just having some fun, you know..." It would have been clear to an incredibly stupid person how much John did not mean what he just said.

Sherlock whirled around to face him, feeling his face darkening, anger burning in his throat. "_Fun_, John?!" He spat. "Is that all you think you're good for? All anyone would want you for? Some_ fun_? I don't... I'm not...I want you to have...Youdeserve..._everything_, John and I can't...I can't. I _can't_."

"What are you talking about, Sherlock? I don't understand." John spoke softly as though he were taming a wild animal and Sherlock ran a hand through his hair in frustration. He turned his back, straightened his clothing as best he could and schooled his features. When he turned back, his cool demeanor was written all over his face. He saw John physically recoil.

"This was a poor indiscretion on my part, John. This is not an appropriate situation for friends to be in, and I apologize for my lapse in judgment. I think it would be best if you leave. Now."

"No, don't do that, Sherlock, please-" John started, taking a step toward him and reaching out a hand. Sherlock took a step back.

"Don't, John. Just go."

By the grace of God alone, Sherlock was able to stay standing as John's blue eyes shined wetly, chewing at his bottom lip in an attempt to keep the tears from falling. He looked down at the floor, blinking furiously and Sherlock took the opportunity to lean against the wall.

"Okay," John murmured. "Okay, I'll just-" He hustled out of the kitchen, scooped up his jacket from the couch and hurried out the front door.

Sherlock fell against the table, slinking down to the floor, falling hard on purpose, wanting it to hurt, and bit down a deep sob that was threatening deep inside his tightened chest.

****I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it. Thank you for supporting this story and reviewing and following, I so appreciate it! I'm doing my best to be quicker with updates, I know this wasn't the nicest way to end a chapter! Hopefully more to come this week!****


	8. Chapter 8

****I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it. Warnings: Lot's of alcohol is consumed and the word bastard is used a hefty amount of times. Thank you for all the support on this story thus far, I so love and appreciate the feedback! You guys are the best!****

* * *

><p><span><strong>Friday Night<strong>

"Sherlock Holmes is a fucking bastard," John slurred, sloshing the drink in his hand.

"Here, here," Link garbled in reply, staring intently at the glass in front of him.

A very sober Mike was smirking as he leaned back against the bar, observing his two friends wobble on the barstools. "This is just a little bit pathetic, but I'm on board if it gets you out of your mope."

John narrowed his fuzzy gaze at his friend. "I didn't mope. I would never mope about Sherlock Fucking Holmes."

"You do know you keep yelling, right?"

John blinked at him in surprise. Had he been yelling? The pub was crowded but not too loud. Why was he yelling? "Sorry," John stage whispered.

Mike laughed. "Why did I decide to be the sober one tonight?"

"Because you were worried I was sad about Sherlock and would get too drunk." John said matter-of-factly. He glared at his drink, closing one eye to focus in on it. "Which may have been a legitimate concern."

Mike pressed his palm to his forehead in mock irritation. "God help me."

Link suddenly surged back to life after swaying in his seat for a long moment. He lifted his drink in the air. "Cheers to Sherlock Holmes being a bastard!"

John was startled momentarily, then nodded his head vigorously, remembering that that was his anthem tonight. "Yes! Cheers to that!"

They both took a hefty swig, then John stared blearily at Link, nodded once and turned to Mike. "Link should move in with us."

Link nodded in agreement, eyelids hanging low. "I'm in."

Mike cocked his head at his two drunken friends. "Really? You'd like to move in to our two bedroom flat?"

John frowned. "We only have two bedrooms?"

Mike laughed, shaking his head.

John turned to Link. "You want to live on the couch? We have a nice couch. Ugh, you know who loves couches? Sherlock fucking Holmes." John shook his head. "Sherlock Holmes is a fucking bastard."

"That's the fifteenth time you've said that tonight. Can we move on yet?"

John shook his head. "Do you know he quit teaching our class? Swapped out with some other TA? And it's a girl." He wrinkled his nose. "Not as much fun to look at."

"Yes John, I know," Mike said in mild annoyance. "We've had this conversation already."

"She is not cute," Link said seriously, shaking his head in disappointment.

"And did you know," John continued as though no one had responded to his outburst, "that Sherlock put my book bag on my desk on Monday before I even got there?" He threw his hands up in the air. "Before I even got there! He couldn't even face me. That bastard. He kissed me you know." He pointed his finger at Mike. "He. Kissed. Me. Fucking bastard."

Mike groaned. "Yes John, we all know, Sherlock kissed you that fateful Sunday morning, then kicked you out of his flat, then quit your class the very next day, never to be seen or heard from again. It's been a long week of the same conversation. Can we get to step three of the moving on process yet?"

John furrowed his brow. "What were steps one and two?"

Mike smirked. "Step one was sulking which you've done your absolute fair share of. Step two was getting spectacularly drunk," Mike glanced his friend up and down, "which I must say you have achieved with aplomb."

John grinned hazily. "Why thank you sir. What's step three?"

Mike's smirk sharpened mischievously. "Finding someone new."

Link was nodding with intense agreement. "Hell yes, let's find someone for John!"

John swung his head around to look at Link, who must have been the happiest drunk he'd ever met. John was quite pleased to have Link as his drinking buddy tonight, since Mike had insisted on being sober to keep an eye on them. Mike was clearly worried John may do something stupid.

He may have had a point. Doing something stupid sounded fantastic right now. He debated if they should get another drink and glanced at Mike to gage if he would try to stop them.

Mike seemed to read his mind. "Alright my friends, I think it's time to call it."

"Noooo!" John and Link both whined together.

"Yeeees," Mike mimicked, laughing. "Come on. You can't pick up anyone in the state you're in anyway, either of you. We'll go to the club tomorrow."

John clapped his hands together gleefully. "Yay! Why can't we go tonight? Right now? I think I need to be dancing right now." He shook his hips to demonstrate that fact.

Link jumped off his barstool and grabbed John's hands pulling him off his chair and taking him in a clumsy waltz position. John giggled. "See?" Link called over his shoulder to Mike as he twirled them around, stumbling every other step. "We need to show these impressive skills off immediately."

Mike was clutching his stomach in laughter, watching his two intoxicated friends attempt to dance.

"Oh God," Mike laughed, wiping a tear from his eye. "That's too good. I promise, I promise I'll take you tomorrow."

John and Link disentangled and both pouted. "What about finding me someone new? I'm looking real good tonight and I'm a damn catch. Someone's bound to pick me up," John tried to reason, nodding as though his argument should be convincing.

Mike was suddenly very serious, looking off behind them with a stern look. "That's what I'm worried about," he murmured absentmindedly, then "I'll be right back."

John shrugged and hopped back on to the barstool he'd been occupying all night, and Link followed suit. "Bartender! Another, please!"

* * *

><p>Sherlock was surprised they hadn't noticed him before. Now watching Mike make his way angrily through the crowded pub, he almost wished he had stayed under the radar.<p>

"Hey," Mike barked as he approached him.

"Mike," Sherlock nodded, keeping his demeanor cool.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "We're in a pub, aren't we? I should think my reason for being here should be rather obvious."

Mike glared at him. "Leave. He doesn't need to see you."

"I'm not here to be seen by anyone," Sherlock said coldly. It wasn't a lie. He didn't want to be seen. He wanted to just… observe. And maybe make sure John was okay. And maybe just have a good long look at him for the first time in five days. He didn't realize how much he would miss just seeing him on a regular basis.

Mike's brow knitted in confusion for a brief moment then recovered. "You're a right prick for what you did, you know that?"

Sherlock didn't respond. He did know that. He didn't need to be told.

The silence seemed to only make Mike angrier. "You know, John is a really good guy. Really good. Better then anyone I've ever known. Definitely too good for you. You let someone really great go. I hope you know that."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes a fraction, forcing himself to stay calm. He already knew all of this. He was fully aware of how good John was. And Mike was right; he was too good for him. Sherlock kept his mouth shut.

Mike scoffed and shook his head. "Wow," he breathed in disbelief. "John was right. You are a fucking bastard."

And with that parting shot, Mike turned around and walked back to his friends. He said something to both of them, then grabbed both their arms and dragged them out of the bar. But not before he threw Sherlock a disgusted look.

Sherlock swallowed thickly, trying to force himself to believe that exchange didn't affect him as much as it had.

Just like he'd tried to convince himself that coming to the pub was because he wanted a drink. Not because he wanted to see John.

Sherlock shook his head and turned to exit out the back door, feeling even more pathetic then before.

He had done the right thing by John, he was sure. He couldn't provide what he needed. Right? He couldn't be a…what? Boyfriend? Partner?

The questions had plagued Sherlock's mind for the entire week after the kiss. The Kiss. Better known in his mind as the Moment When Sherlock Royally Fucked Up. He should have never let it get that far. Ever. He should have had more control. He shouldn't have been overpowered by…_emotions_. Ugh. Not a word he enjoyed thinking if he could help it, but one that had frequented his thoughts more and more since he'd met John.

He'd hurt him. The one thing he had been so afraid of happening to that boy he himself had inflicted upon him. He'd known better and still it happened. That proved right there that he wasn't worthy of any type of relationship. He wasn't capable of something like that. Right?

Although... it was becoming abundantly clear that he cared about John more then he'd cared about anything in his life. And he had an almost unhealthy need to take care of him. He also felt a hapless urge to stalk his every move.

The same argument replayed itself over and over in Sherlock's head. He'd gone back and forth like this for five dreadful days.

And it didn't seem like it would resolve itself any time soon.

He walked home in the cold, refusing to bundle up his jacket tightly, hoping the cool air would seep into his mind and freeze his thoughts, or at least knock him out of the constant back and forth his mind continued to throw him into.

* * *

><p>"We're like the Three Gay Musketeers," Link said happily as he and John stumbled home, both attached to either of Mike's arms.<p>

"You and I aren't gay," Mike huffed, suppressing a smirk.

"I am!" John cheered, very pleased to announce this fact to his friends.

"And that's exactly why I didn't want you to go to the club tonight," Mike said pointedly.

John scrunched his nose. "Because I'm gay?"

Mike rolled his eyes. "No," he said firmly, "because you're drunk as shit. And sometimes… sometimes people at the club try to take advantage. I didn't want you leaving with some random guy." He threw him a stern look. "And you won't be doing that sober either."

John thought that over then smiled. "You take such good care of me Mikey. You're my best friend. Did you know that? My best friend in the whole _world_."

Link was beaming at them. "You guys are the best. I'm so happy we became friends!"

Mike laughed. "Would you both shut up. We need to get home."

"But I want to _dance_," Link said dramatically. "My dancing would definitely get me some action. Someone would absolutely take me home for the night."

Mike sighed. "Not tonight. Tomorrow, you can do all the dancing you want and go home with whoever you'd like."

John gaped at him and then pouted. "How come _he_ gets to have fun and I don't?" He whined.

Mike eyed him. "Because _he_ has experience. Trust me, you don't want to shag for the first time in a drunken stupor with some stranger." Mike shook his head.

John threw his hands up in the air, exasperated. "Who cares? It's just sex. No big deal."

Mike rounded on him suddenly and John stumbled backwards. "Woah, what is happening," he murmured to himself, clutching at his head as a dizzy spell washed over him. Link stepped off to the side, looking slightly panicked as he watched his one friend get in the other's face. Mike's eyes were dark as he glared intensely at John.

"It _is _a big deal, John. Please believe me when I say it's a big deal. Don't go out and fuck someone just to say you did, okay? I'm telling you right now, as your best friend, you'll regret it. Seriously. I've told you this already once before. Be careful."

John blearily stared at him for a long moment. "Okay," he murmured.

Mike nodded and turned back to the route they were on. The three of them walked along in silence for a moment and then John giggled. "You yelled at me."

Link burst out laughing. "You really did."

Mike's lips twitched, trying not to smile. John didn't miss it as he continued. "You got all serious and scary and in my face, fiercely protecting my virginity. It was kind of sexy."

Mike shoved him. "Fuck _off_," he said unable to contain his laughter.

* * *

><p><span><strong>Saturday Morning<strong>

After a night of no sleep, Sherlock slapped on several nicotine patches and tossed his dressing gown over his sweatpants and a t-shirt, surrendering to indulging every argument to every thought swirling around his mind. It was still early, but his mind was begging him to give in. He lay very still on his couch, attempting to decipher his foreign feelings, going back and forth from why he should at least talk to John to why he should stay away from him altogether.

He twisted round and round in his head, finally at long last determining he most definitely should stay away from John for good, when he opened his eyes again to darkness and loud bing of his phone. He blindly reached for it on the table and opened his eyes, glancing at the clock. 8PM. He'd been in his mind for an entire twelve hours.

He unlocked his phone and glared for a long moment, then promptly forgot his recent internal declaration, threw himself from the couch and hurried off his room. He suddenly had an evening out on the town to prepare for.

* * *

><p><span><strong>Saturday Night<strong>

John sipped his drink nervously as he settled against the wall of the club snuggly next to Mike. His friend grinned at him and wiggled his eyebrows, obviously excited about John's first night 'out on the prowl' as Link had so tactfully put it. He and Link had woken up surprisingly sober and still adamant about going to the club that night. John was ready. He wanted to forget about Sherlock and have a little fun.

"Last night was for sulking," Link had said. "Tonight is for shagging."

Mike had turned angrily around and threw a pointed finger at John. "No shagging."

Link rolled his eyes. "Fine, fine, no shagging. Maybe some snogging? Or a little hand action?"

They both looked at Mike who smirked. "Hell yes. I think we all need that, yeah? Let's go."

As soon as they got to the club, they'd grabbed drinks and settled in a spot along the back wall. John had downed his without a second thought, trying to settle the nerves he'd acquired as they'd walked in to Mad Marty's. John had never in his life been to a gay club and was beyond nervous.

And a little pissed off that all he could think about was Sherlock. This was the infamous club Link had seen him at. This was the place he was sure Sherlock picked up many of his conquests. Who knows, he may even see him tonight, picking someone up. Someone else. Someone that wasn't John.

It made John glower with fury and jealousy and made the thought of drinking copious amounts of alcohol all the more enticing.

Mike was eyeing the crowd, when his gaze settled almost angrily on something on the other side of John.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," he snarled.

John glanced up at him in confusion. "What?"

Mike looked down at him almost apologetically then looked back off behind him and nodded pointedly.

John turned his head and laid eyes on the man he'd been thinking about all week. A shudder ran down his back and he locked eyes with that unsettling gray stare.

"Ignore him," Mike was saying. "He's a tool. He was at the pub last night, too, the prick. Probably stalking you."

John glanced up in surprise. "He was?"

Mike nodded. "I gave him my two cents about what I thought of him. You're right, he is a total bastard."

John's eyes widened. "He was rude to you?"

Mike nodded absently, then looked sharply at John. "It's fine John. Don't do anything. He isn't worth it."

"Fuck that," John said angrily. "I'll be right back. Stay here."

Mike looked as though he wanted to try to stop him but instead just nodded.

John took off, storming through the crowd, pushing his way to the man who'd hurt him so much only a week ago. He hadn't seen Sherlock since the incident and he was mad as hell. He'd been waiting, just waiting to see him again to give him a piece of his mind.

The day after the kiss happened, John had walked to Chemistry class so terribly nervous. He'd gone over what had happened at Sherlock's flat over and over again, and still he was so utterly confused. He didn't understand why Sherlock had kissed him so desperately and then pulled back and spewed a bunch of gibberish that John had been trying to decipher since.

By class the next morning, John had determined Sherlock's 'I can't give you a proper relationship' was his way of saying 'it's not you it's me' and that had in itself been hard to grapple with. It had made John rather sad to think that even after they became proper friends, Sherlock couldn't tell him, like a normal person that he didn't want to date him. Instead he'd kissed him, given him false hope, then pulled the rug out from under him. The all too familiar feeling of disappointment and rejection had washed over him naturally, as though this was how he was meant to feel for the rest of his life, and John had walked home, swiping shameful tears from his eyes and wondering if he'd ever find someone who actually wanted him back.

And then John had walked into Chemistry Lecture the following day, seen his bag sitting on his usual desk, heard the new TA's news of replacing Sherlock, and sadness had turned to downright rage.

How dare he. How fucking _dare_ he kiss him, basically throw himself at him, stop and dramatically kick him out of his flat and then _quit his class_? Obviously attempting to exit John's life entirely as though he couldn't even stand to be around him. Like_ he'd_ done something wrong. It felt so completely cruel. He'd glared at the board for the entire class, fuming in silence at the fact that his supposed friend couldn't even face him. It was complete and utter bullshit.

John harnessed that anger now as he hauled through the club, knowing Sherlock saw him coming and wasn't surprised when he finally reached him that Sherlock's indifferent demeanor was already steadily in place.

"John," he said coolly.

Oh _hell_ no.

"Come here," John barked, marching to one of the hallways off of the club. It was only a little quieter but at least John could hear himself think.

He turned on Sherlock as they rounded the corner. "Who the hell do you think you are being a dick to my best friend?"

Sherlock looked momentarily surprised but recovered quickly, eyeing John for a long moment. "You're angry over my conversation with Mike?"

John's eyes blazed with uncontrolled fury. "Oh, I'm mad about a whole mess of things, Sherlock, but right now I want to talk about this. It's one thing for you to humiliate me, but it's a whole other thing for you to treat my friends like shit."

Sherlock cocked his head, a frown creasing his forehead. "I humiliated you?"

John gaped at him. "Seriously? You thought snogging the hell out of me and then kicking me out of your flat was, what? A nice, enjoyable morning for me?"

For the first time ever, John actually saw a subtle blush creep up Sherlock's pale neck, the color almost bright against his dark green button down. John watched Sherlock's face intently, but there was no sign of his response anywhere else. He didn't speak.

John shook his head. "Yeah, best if you didn't reply I suppose. I don't want to hear what you have to say anyway. It was a really shitty thing you did to me, Sherlock. It was hurtful and embarrassing. And what's even worse is after that happened, I stupidly thought we might be able to get past it. I thought maybe we could talk about it, save our friendship and move forward. But instead, you up and quit teaching my class? And avoid me like_ I_ did something wrong?" John was almost shaking with rage as he glared up into those ever changing eyes, the ones that never gave a shred of evidence that anything John said actually affected Sherlock in any way. John glowered at him. "You're a coward." He turned to leave, then thought of one more thing, and turned back. "And stay away from my friends. I actually do have good friends and I don't need you making them feel as shitty as you did me."

John stalked off without waiting for a response.

Link and Mike were two drinks deep by the time he found his way back to them.

"There he is!" Link cheered and pushed a drink into his hand. John downed it quickly.

"Sherlock Holmes is a fucking bastard," John said almost angrily, slamming his drink down on the table they'd found. "And that is the last time I'm going to say it. We need another round. We're getting fucked up tonight." Mike and Link both crowed in agreement.

The night before, they'd gone to a local pub for a nice night of buddy drinking. Tonight, they had a purpose and all three of them knew it. Game time.

"Wait, wait," Mike said as they acquired their next round. "We have to make a deal. None of us leave without letting the other know. Buddy system." He shot John a meaningful look and John rolled his eyes.

"I'm not a moron, Mike. I'll be smart."

That seemed to be enough for Mike's already hazy mind as he nodded and the three of them sucked down their drinks.

Three rounds later, the three of them were giggling madly and John had all but forgotten about his exchange with Sherlock. He didn't want to worry about that now. Right now he wanted to see what this club could potentially hold for him. What this life could possibly be like.

Mike raised an eyebrow, looking off to the side. "I think we may have a potential suitor."

"For who?" John asked bemused.

"I'll be right back," Link said abruptly, kicking off the table clumsily and strolling with purpose.

John waved his hand. "I think that answers my question." He was loosened up now, his body relaxing as the liquor sunk into his bloodstream. He grinned down into his half full drink and happily chewed at the straw, humming to himself.

"Here we go," Mike mumbled excitedly. John glanced up at him for a moment before-

"Johnny, this is Will. Will, this is John."

John swung around at the sound of his name, almost tipping over the table and found Link with his hand on a stranger's shoulder. The man wasn't bad to look at, only a bit taller then Link, light brown hair and brilliant bright green eyes, smiling down at John.

John grinned drunkenly. "Hi."

Will smiled wider. "Christ, you're even cuter up close."

John cocked his head, his foggy brain trying to catch up. "What?"

Will held out his hand and John went to shake it but instead, Will pulled him toward the main floor. "Come on gorgeous, let's dance."

"Uhh..." John threw a helpless glance back at Mike, who was only grinning maniacally.

"Enjoy! We'll be right here!" He called, and grabbed John's left behind drink, raising it at him.

John's drowning brain was spinning harshly as he stumbled out on to the dance floor. He tripped forward and Will caught him, gripping his hips possessively and pulling him close. "Careful now. Wouldn't want that pretty little face getting hurt now would we?"

Jesus this guy was smooth. John grinned, his liquored mind appreciating the attention more then his sober self would have. Will grinned back and wrapped his arms further around John. "Come here," he crooned. John gripped Will's biceps to steady himself as they swayed to the music, and couldn't help but notice how firm they were. He gave an experimental squeeze to each, testing them out, and Will tightened his grasp on his waist. "I've never seen you here before," Will was murmuring into his ear and John shivered.

"First time," he choked back and Will threw his head back and laughed, startling John a little.

"No doubt about that," he smirked and tugged him closer still, pressing their bodies together. John was getting dizzier by the minute, the constant thumping of the beat and the heat from the sweaty bodies near him making him a bit dazed. He tried to focus on the stranger paying him such intense attention as the effects of the vodka settled in, finding it increasingly difficult to keep track of where Will's hands were on him. His feet weren't listening and he stumbled again, leaning into the man more, letting his forehead fall onto his shoulder to keep himself steady and closing his eyes to stop the floor from rotating beneath him. Will wrapped an arm around John's shoulders, sealing their bodies together and began gyrating slowly against him to the music's ebb and flow.

Wow, that was… that felt nice. John moaned without meaning to and he heard Will chuckle, then roll his hips against him again, John responding tentatively with a small thrust of his pelvis. He turned his head to the side, laying his cheek on the chest in front of him, trying to focus on the feeling between his legs, wrapping his arms around Will's neck for further leverage. He let himself be rocked, holding on for dear life, unaware of the tiny noises coming from him mouth as someone other then himself caressed him. He tried to open his watery eyes, feeling the alcohol and loud pulse of the music slamming against the confines of his head. He blinked, losing awareness of who was holding him up as he tried to stop the room from rotating harshly. His mouth dropped open as Will pushed harder against him with purpose.

John's vision steadily focused as his sight cleared and there in the corner stood a tall, pale, sharp, all too familiar figure, staring at him with all the intensity of a lion hunting its prey. John stared back, his mind sloshing to catch up as he raised his head a fraction and squinted.

_Sherlock._

Why did he look so angry? What had John done to receive a look like that?

John frowned, trying to remember what their last discussion had been, and closed his eyes tightly to refocus. When he opened them again, the figure was gone, and the man John had been dancing with was stroking his cheek with his thumb, turning his head back to him. John leaned in to the touch, never having experienced anything like it before. It was so gentle and soothing. John hummed in reply.

"You wanna get out of here?" Will cooed into his ear and kissed his cheek.

John's body was buzzing, the alcohol mixing with the attention he'd never received in his life, he wasn't sure how to react. He liked it… it was nice…

But hadn't they just started dancing? Or maybe they'd been dancing for a long time? Maybe all night? John's head throbbed, his vision shaky at best as he tried to steady his thoughts and think through what was going on. He didn't know this man. This stranger who was being almost too kind, holding him too tightly, speaking to him and touching him too intimately. John suddenly felt a slight panic. This wasn't right.

He glanced up and stared hazily into soft, kind green eyes, gazing at him kindly, silently promising to take care of him. And all that fear faded away. Sure he could trust this random person showing him such kindness. Sure he could go with him, no problem. He seemed nice. This is what people did, right? Went off together after meeting in a dark club? Isn't this what Sherlock did every weekend? Suddenly, John wanted nothing more then to go with this man and forget about Sherlock entirely.

Will bent down and gave John a chaste kiss, pressing their lips together softly, then pulled back, his features soft and reassuring. John stared up at him and nodded, unsure exactly what it was he was agreeing to. Will took his hand, flashing a triumphant smirk John assumed he wasn't supposed to have seen as he turned toward the door with John in tow.

John's brain casually jogged to catch up and waved a red flag almost in slow motion across his mind, setting off quiet alarm bells and he stopped mid-stride. Will felt the pull on his hand and he turned back, concern creasing his forehead and maybe a little… irritation? John narrowed his eyes, trying to see better.

"What?" Will said just a bit too sharply.

John shook his head, trying to find the words in his blurry memory.

Will huffed softly, clearly trying to not seem annoyed. John forced himself to speak, a little nervous this kind stranger may get angry if he didn't explain himself.

"I-can't. My friends…" John waved vaguely behind him. "…Can't go home with you."

Will stared at him for a moment and then a small, almost evil smirk spread across his face. "You can't go home with me?"

John shook his head.

"You're friends told you not to go home with anyone?"

John nodded, smiling at the fact that he was able to get his point across with such few words.

"Alright. Did they say anything about the alley?"

John thought about that for a long moment.

Will was suddenly very close again, pressing his wet lips to John's ear. "You wouldn't be leaving. You'd still technically be at the club. Come on. I know you want to."

That was true. The alley was technically still the club. He could go and snog this stranger in the dark for a little bit. That would be nice. That's obviously what this guy wanted and he'd been so nice to him all night. John should give him that right?

He nodded slowly and allowed Will to lead him out a side door.

* * *

><p>The knot in Sherlock's stomach twisted so tightly, he thought he may be in danger of vomiting. His body shook violently, almost uncontrollably, and he tried to look away but was unable to. He deserved this. He knew he did. He deserved to see this.<p>

His attention was focused so hard, he barely noticed the now-regular glances and nervous titters around him of potential hook-ups trying to get the courage up to talk to him. He didn't have time to worry about that. He was intensely watching the all too kind and gentle and rather drunk blonde young man who was currently being groped on the dance floor by a boy Sherlock was having graphic fantasies about murdering in cold blood. That idiotic, unimaginative boy with the fake warmth, taking no time to get to know the incredible man he was currently holding far too tightly, very obviously eager to get to fucking him as soon as possible, touching his back in an entirely too familiar way for strangers, stroking him carefully as though to say 'See? I'm nice. I'll take good care of you. Come home with me and you'll see.' He was a fraud. A phony. John couldn't see that in the state he was in. That man wanted one thing and was planning on doing whatever necessary to get it.

Sherlock shivered at the thought that it may be working.

He held tightly to the table, physically restraining himself to keep from walking over, ripping them apart and taking John home with him, knocking the other boy out in the process.

His body physically ached as he watched John lay his head against the stranger's chest and close his eyes as though comfortable in the embrace. Sherlock knew better then to think John was actually enjoying himself and just very drunk, trying to keep himself up, but the facts didn't change his reaction to the touch.

And then he locked eyes with John. He couldn't be sure if John actually saw him, his eyes glassy even from afar, and Sherlock took off. He hurried toward the door, cursing himself silly as he pushed his way out, but not before he tossed a glance back to see John receiving a disgustingly gentle kiss and slipping his hand into the other boy's, looking nothing more then confused. He gave a slight nod to the taller boy as though giving permission and Sherlock's vision blurred violently, the beast of jealousy raging within him, demanding to be seen and put to use, begging to take over and get the job done.

He threw himself out of the club before things got worse. Sherlock was not John's bodyguard. He was not allowed to interfere in his life. He had zero right to go up to him and demand he not leave with that boy. Especially after John's confrontation earlier in the night. He didn't want to hear anything from Sherlock.

So instead, being the selfish prat that he was, Sherlock chose to intervene indirectly. He couldn't take it. He had to do something. He had no right. He knew full well he had no right. But he was so far out of control, he didn't care.

He pulled his phone out, debated for half a moment then decided to go with an abrasive approach. It always got results quicker.

**I assume you're intelligent enough to know how unsafe allowing your friends to go home with strangers can be. -SH**

He waited, trying to calm his breathing as he waited for a response. When his phone buzzed again, he could hardly open it fast enough.

_**How did you get this number?**_

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

**Unimportant. If you allow those close to you to make unwise decisions and stand by without intervening, I weep for those who choose to trust you. -SH**

_**How is that any business of yours?**_

Sherlock smirked. He appreciated that response over none at all.

**It may very well not be. But I highly suggest if you place any value in your friendships, you ensure the safety of said friends. -SH**

_**Go fuck yourself. You screwed up. You don't get to care about what he does.**_

_**I'll take care of it, not that it concerns you. **_

Sherlock responded before thinking, breathing a sigh of relief.

**You're right. Thank you for taking care of him. -SH**

_**I'm not doing it for you.**_

**I know. Thank you anyway, Mike. -SH**

He didn't expect a reply back and walked down the street slowly, gulping in the cold air.

He'd never loathed himself more.

The simple notion of knowing John was being touched by someone else, even just innocent hand-holding cut Sherlock to the bone, and the fact that he was well aware they were currently on their way to doing more was so horrifying it made Sherlock physically shake with pain. He shuddered. Mike was right, it wasn't Sherlock's place to be worried.

That didn't stop it from hurting all the same.

His phone vibrated and he slowly pulled it out of his pocket, lost in thought.

When he finally glanced down, he stopped breathing as the text message from Mike lit up his screen.

_**Where is he?**_

**I don't know. I left. –SH**

He didn't move until he received a response. Then:

_**I thought you were stalking him.**_

**Do you see him or not. -SH**

_**Hang on, we're looking. **__**He wouldn't have left with anyone.**_

**Are you sure about that? -SH**

**Mike? -SH**

**? -SH**

The next message seemed to take eternity to arrive.

_**Shit. We can't find him.**_

* * *

><p><strong>**I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it.**<strong>


	9. Chapter 9

****I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it. Warning: Violence and tears. This chapter is a tiny bit shorter then the two previous monster ones. I found myself writing an obscenely long chapter and decided to split them in to two, so this one is a bit short but the next one may be a bit longer, and hopefully it will be up in a day or two! Thank you again for all the support on this story!****

For the first time in his life, the first option Sherlock considered was contacting Mycroft. He could practically hear the smug answer and sneered comments, knowing Mycroft would think of it as Sherlock's admission of defeat, showing his true weakness but he honestly didn't care. If it helped find John quicker, it was worth losing the ever-lasting battle between them.

Sherlock rounded the corner back to Mad Marty's, pushing through the crowd outside the building, his head on a constant swivel as he searched for a short blonde head to catch his eye. He ignored the grumbles and 'Hey!'s he received as he barreled through roughly, seeing plenty of familiar faces, but none were the one he was searching for.

His mind was racing. Mike and Link were intoxicated, maybe they just missed John in the dark club. Maybe they hadn't looked thoroughly enough. Maybe John had just stepped out to get some fresh air.

Maybe John was pressed against a wall somewhere, accepting sloppy drunk kisses from a stranger.

Maybe John was currently getting off with that guy he was dancing with.

Maybe John was currently...

Sherlock's vision blurred aggressively at those thoughts, barely registering the tiny voice in his mind whispering it was none of his business what John chose to give to or take from anyone. Whispering it wasn't his place to stop him.

As a jealous bloke, it wasn't his place. As a friend, it absolutely was.

There wasn't a choice to do nothing. Not because he wanted to be the one with John. Not because he craved to touch John like that. But because John was completely legless at the moment and, if their brief conversation at the beginning of the night was any indication, he was obviously upset and hurt. And by the look of the way he had been dancing, he was clearly seeking some sort of attention. The mindset John was currently in would make it very easy for him to do something he may regret at a later date. Something that may end up hurting more then helping. As his friend, Sherlock couldn't let that happen.

He cursed himself for trusting Mike and Link to handle this. Clearly, alcohol was a key factor in them being rendered useless, and Sherlock should have guessed that sooner. He shouldn't have left John like that. Even if it hurt to watch, Sherlock should have stayed. Boundaries be damned. As his friend, Sherlock should have watched out for him, and not torn out of the club like some lovesick teenager.

Sherlock rounded the club with practiced ease, all be it this time was much more urgent, searching through the darkness, and coming up empty. He checked the hallways and the loo, and was about to pull out his phone to text Mycroft for an exact location on John, when an unsettling thought crossed his mind.

Sherlock himself had taken plenty of willing participants out back of this very club. It was dark and secluded and added an element of danger to any act with the possibility of being caught. It was also convenient when looking to get off quickly. He saw the back exit and barreled toward it.

Sherlock burst through the back doors of the building purposefully forceful, banging the door hard against the wall, hoping to startle and stop anything going on in the shadows.

The back alley was empty. He stood quietly, listening intently for any telltale sounds of coupling taking place, any harsh breathing or ruffling of clothing.

He was met with silence.

He swept up and down the alley, sweat beading his forehead, edging closer and closer to hysteria as the darkness stayed still and empty. If John wasn't back here that meant he may be somewhere Sherlock couldn't get to him...locked away inside someone's house, defenses down, inhibitions all but turned off.

Sherlock's alarm bells were ringing in his ears, the chilled air doing nothing to stop the cold sweat from dripping down his temples. The helplessness he felt at that moment was so strong he had to resist the urge to angrily kick a trash bin nearby.

He rounded the outside of the building, phone in hand, thumb hovering over Mycroft's number when he heard a soft moan. He stopped immediately; silently tucking his brightly lit phone into his pocket and trying to ignore the inward kick his brain gave him realizing he hadn't checked either side alley of the club. He'd only assumed people were intelligent enough not to use those areas, seeing as they weren't nearly as private as the back. Dammit. He always missed something.

He narrowed his eyes, the harsh lights from the streets silhouetting a dark protrusion from the wall, but Sherlock was already sure he knew what it was. There, against the side of the building, he could see the outline of two bodies pressed against the brick, a relatively taller man pressing a considerably shorter one to it.

Sherlock stayed completely still, recognizing John almost immediately, even before the boy turned his head toward him, eyes closed, and groaned softly as the man above him delicately attacked his neck. John's fingers were clutching desperately at the man's shoulders in an attempt to keep him attached.

Sherlock was sure his heart had all but stopped beating.

Watching John Watson kissing somebody else was positively unbearable.

Sherlock resisted the urge to slap his hand over his left pectoral in a dramatic way, realizing how pitiful that move would be, but he felt an overwhelming need to touch his chest, at least make a feeble attempt to hold his breaking heart together as he heard another aroused moan elicit itself from John's mouth.

He took a shaky step back, physically forcing himself to go through the facts, trying to reason with himself as the jealous beast within him roared savagely.

John was okay. He was being snogged in a sickening fashion that made Sherlock want to growl in agony, but he was fully clothed and the stranger's hands were visible, one against John's hip and the other holding his head to the side to get at the skin under his ear.

Sherlock hovered still, unable to tear his eyes away for the image in front of him. His eyes roamed frantically over the scene, attempting to deduce all that he could, but his skills were useless in this moment. The only thing in his mind was a brightly lit, blinking sign that read _John is kissing someone that isn't you. _His legs shook, begging to collapse but he held himself up by a thread, knowing if he made any movement, he may be seen, and even he knew how wrong it was for him to be witnessing this. But he couldn't go. Not yet. He was sure he deserved to see this, sure he'd done something to warrant such pain but at the moment his mind was so fuzzy he couldn't quite remember why.

At long last, he forced himself to move. John was simply kissing someone. He wasn't in any danger. He wasn't being hurt. Snogging some random person wouldn't ruin his life. He'd be fine.

Sherlock turned and walked back down the alley in slow motion, wishing more then anything he'd stayed home tonight and missed all of this entirely. Missed the pain of watching John grinding against someone, missed the panic of John being in trouble, missed the agony of watching _this_. He could have done without all of it.

"H-hey, come on," a shaky, slurred but familiar voice came from behind him and Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks.

"What?" a growl came in reply, "Don't tell me you don't want it."

A quiet rustle of clothing could be heard, an odd sound as though someone was trying to speak and being muffled, a gasp of air, then, "Seriously, stop. I don't want that."

"What are you, prude? You've been moaning all fucking night, practically begging for it. Come on," the growling voice came again.

"No-" the word was cut off by the unmistakably nauseating sound of taught skin connecting with soft tissue, and a sickening _oomph_ came from that familiar mouth, and Sherlock turned to see the smaller body sliding sideways down the wall.

"Shut up. You think you can tease me all night and then try to pretend you don't want it?" The growl had turned into a dark, angry bark, and the sound of a zipper being undone was loud in the silent night, and Sherlock was running faster then he'd ever run in his life. He pounded against the pavement, propelling himself forward as the tall outline reached for the small, collapsed body on the pavement.

Sherlock reached him just before the man's hands closed around John's jacket, and launched himself so viciously, he wouldn't have been surprised if he had broken something in his own body.

Sherlock landed hard on top of him, shoving him back and away from John and slammed the stranger's head against the ground. The man groaned, hardly struggling, clearly surprised by the attack, unable to respond until he processed what happened. Sherlock straddled him, grabbed two fistfulls of his coat, yanked him up and threw him down again, hitting his back against the concrete and knocking the wind out of him.

"Wha-" the man tried to breath and Sherlock threw him down once more, deciding silently that if this guy spoke again, Sherlock would break several of his bones.

"Don't you _dare_ speak," Sherlock spat with so much venom, he could see the man's body trying to recoil in fear. "Now listen to me very carefully. You will not lay another finger on him. Ever. If you ever see him again, turn around and walk the other way. If you so much as look at him for too long, I will not hesitate to end your life. Are we clear?"

The man's eyes were so wide Sherlock thought them in danger of popping out of his head entirely. He glared down at him until the man nodded vigorously, glancing from side to side, clearly trying to figure out how to get out of this situation.

Sherlock growled low in his chest, then threw the man down and knocked him out for good measure.

Lifting himself from the unconscious body, still shaking with rage, Sherlock turned toward John's crumpled frame, propped up against the wall, one hand pressed to his cheek. He was staring unseeingly at the seemingly lifeless body on the ground, his gaze a bit hazy. Sherlock guessed the alcohol was still flowing freely through his veins. Finally, he glanced up at Sherlock with a blank expression.

And then bit his lip as it started to tremble, his blue eyes filling with panicked tears.

Sherlock fell to his knees. He reached for John's free hand, then placed his other arm around his waist and lifted them both to their equally unsteady feet. He wrapped his long coat around them both and John held on tightly to him, his hands fisting in Sherlock's shirt.

"It's alright," Sherlock soothed quietly, but it only seemed to make John's drunken body shake harder. Sherlock glanced around and decided immediately they needed to get home.

John allowed himself to be led as Sherlock slowly made their way to the street. Sherlock was already worried that they wouldn't be able to get a taxi, seeing as they were outside a club with a bunch of inebriated individuals, but he desperately needed to get John away from here.

To his relief and mild irritation, an all too familiar black car was coming around the corner and Sherlock was already reaching for his phone when the bing of a text message sounded. He opened it quickly.

**Take the car. You'll never get a cab at this time of night. –MH**

Sherlock glanced up to see a white camera pointed down toward them. A burst of anger filled his chest at the thought of his brother witnessing John being pulled into an alley and not doing a thing to stop it.

The rational part of his mind noted that up until a few minutes ago, it had just been innocent snogging.

The rational part won in the end and Sherlock nodded up at the camera in gratitude.

He bundled John into the back of the car, sliding in next to him. John huddled against the far door as far away from Sherlock as he could be in the small space. Sherlock fidgeted in his seat with the need to reach out and touch him, but unsure if he should.

The car pulled away from the club and they sat in silence for a moment. Sherlock heard a quiet hitched breath and stole a glance at the boy against the door. He had to remind himself how to breathe as he took in the site before him.

Tears were sliding down John's face now in silent streams, his beautiful blue eyes shimmering unable to stop the flood they were swimming in. He was not sobbing. He was not hysterical. He simply wept quietly, pursing his lips together so hard they were white, staring at his hands in his lap, shoulders hunched and tight.

"What's wrong with me." John murmured. "Why doesn't anyone want me." He reached up to wipe his eyes harshly. "What's wrong with me," he repeated, still staring down into his lap, slumped against the seat, entirely defeated.

They weren't questions that expected answers. They were just thoughts, John's simple, heartbreaking thoughts that he truly believed no one wanted him. Sherlock was convinced his heart was being ripped out of his chest by an unseen entity as he watched John Watson fall apart beside him. His cheeks were flushed from the alcohol and wet from the tears, his right eye was slowly turning a dark purple and swelling, his clothes were tattered from falling on the concrete and his hands were shaking.

Sherlock barely thought it through as the instinct overwhelmed him.

He wrapped his long arm around John's shoulders, pulling him into his body and cradling him against his chest. John went willingly, letting out a tiny sob as he came into contact with Sherlock's frame gripping one hand into Sherlock's coat, holding on for dear life as he silently cried into his teacher's chest. Sherlock felt his body shaking with quiet sobs, staining his shirt with salty water, and he placed one hand in his hair and soothingly carded his fingers through John's short fringe. He rocked him carefully, tightening his arm around his shoulders and laid his cheek against the top of John's head.

Sherlock didn't speak. He wasn't entirely sure what to say. He chose instead to attempt to show. Show him how torn he was over John falling apart in his arms. How painful it was to see him feel like he wasn't worth anything to anyone, when he had unknowingly worked his way into Sherlock's life, changing it drastically, dragging out emotions and _feelings_ that Sherlock didn't even think he was capable of. He had no idea that Sherlock's world was slowly becoming revolved around him entirely, that every moment they'd spent together had changed Sherlock in some fundamental way, so subtle that not even a genius could see it until it was broken, battered and sobbing into his chest. That an entire week away from this boy had left him lost and a little mad, following him around like some crazed stalker, determining his habits, hoping he'd yet again show up at his office, holding two coffees and grinning at the prospect of spending more time with Sherlock.

He held on to John's shuddering body and subconsciously tracked where the car was en route to his flat. He breathed a sigh of relief when he realized Mycroft had sent them back to Sherlock's flat, not John's. There was no way that he was leaving John tonight, no way he was letting him out of his sight until he sobered up, iced that awful bruise and then had a conversation with him.

Sherlock laid a silent kiss in John's hair, biting back a sob that was threatening to make itself known in his throat, as the emotions of the past week all hurled themselves at him. Kissing John, forcing separation, desperate to see him, seeing John with someone else, seeing John get hurt, seeing John like this. It was all too much. Too much to bear. It was all so painful and Sherlock gripped the boy in his arms tighter, not letting go until the car pulled up outside his flat.

* * *

><p>Only after he tucked a still quietly weeping John into his bed did Sherlock pull out his phone. Seven text messages and four missed calls from Mike. He felt a pang of guilt at not thinking sooner to let Mike know John was safe, but nothing could be done now. He sent back a brief message.<p>

**John is safe. He's asleep at my flat. -SH**

He then promptly silenced the device.

He let himself drop heavily to his sofa, falling comfortably against the cushions, and took a deep, heaving breath, rolling his shoulders and shaking his head gently, trying to gain control over himself again.

He needed to calm down. The blood in his body was racing against itself, pumping faster and harder then it had before, nothing like his normal adrenaline rushes, not just a nice buzzing in his body but an aching helpless fear as though his system may explode entirely.

When he was fifteen years old, Sherlock shoved a needle into his arm for the first time. His shaky, strung out, untrained hand had been so eager, he missed the vein entirely and the pain that shot through his body as the cocaine rolled through him was so painful he'd been convinced he was in danger of dying.

That was nothing compared to the emotional breakdown he was currently having.

He laid his head back, took a deep, shuddering breath and gave in.

For the first time in a very long time, Sherlock felt lonely in his own thoughts. He let the tumultuous last few months wash over him, the sadness and pain from last week crept in, and finally the panic and fear from tonight made itself known and Sherlock shoved a pillow into his mouth as he let out a sound he hadn't made since he was a child. It was somewhere between a scream, a growl and a sob.

His eyes stayed dry, but his body shook uncontrollably as he finally quit suppressing all of his emotions and allowed them to take him over entirely, overwhelming him. It was by far the most painful thing he'd ever experienced in his life.

He clutched the pillow tightly against his face, closing his eyes and biting down so hard he'd find tiny teeth-shaped holes in the fabric the next morning as he let wave after wave of pure agony roll through him.

He'd caused himself most of this pain, he knew. He should have been smarter about all of this. He should have known immediately that John was different and should have given in at the very beginning. He should have known he would only create a mess, hurting himself and John. He should have known that things in his life never resolved themselves when ignored. They simply gained traction, becoming bigger and more complicated until things are so out of control that someone is getting wasted, punched and almost raped in a dark alleyway.

Sherlock shuddered at that last thought and all but fell against the coffee table in an attempt to reach his phone. He pulled it toward him, ignoring the most recent text messages he had in his inbox and dialed the only person in the world he was sure was awake and would answer his call. He should have thought of this weeks ago, and had, but had chosen, as usual, the difficult route and avoided this, thinking himself stronger. Now, he couldn't for the life of him remember why.

He'd made a call like this only once before in all of his 19 years on this earth. It was an unspoken agreement they had and he was so grateful for it now.

The phone rang once and then the soothing, familiar voice came over the line. "Good evening, Sherlock."

And for some unknown reason, that was what did it. Because as much as Sherlock would like to act like he wasn't, the truth of the matter was that he was still just a kid and what he was experiencing right at this moment was just simply too much. He cried quietly into the phone, the tears finally sliding down his cheeks as he breathed shaky breaths in and out through soft sobs.

The line was quiet as Sherlock lost it, which was more then he could ever ask for. At least now, he didn't feel so alone.

"Hello," he finally croaked.

"Do you need me to come to you?" The question was not laced with pity or worry, it was simply just a question.

Sherlock shook his head as he was finally able to breath a proper amount of air. "No. No, I'm alright."

"Is John alright as well?"

Sherlock sighed contently. This was exactly why he'd called.

"Yes, John is alright."

There was a quiet whoosh of relieved breath on the other end of the line. "Good. I'm so proud of you for what you did tonight, Sherlock."

That almost brought on a fresh wave of tears, but Sherlock was able to keep them at bay. He already knew that she kept her own tabs on him. Not as intrusive as Mycroft, and never was any information she acquired held over his head. It was just knowledge she kept stored for her own comfort and for their conversations. She was the only one that fully understood him. He'd realized a long time ago that she probably would be the only one that ever would. Or so he thought. "Thank you," he replied softly.

"I know this is really scary, and I know you don't fully understand what's going on inside of you. But I hope tonight was a wake-up call, and I hope you're going to stop fighting yourself."

Sherlock nodded, breathing another deep breath. "I know. But I'm not-"

"You are capable of anything, Sherlock. Don't sell yourself so short, alright? He's a very good young man and I think he'll be better for you then you've even considered."

Truth be told, he hadn't considered what John would be to him at all. He'd been solely concerned about what John needed.

"But what about what I would be to him?"

"Why don't you stop making his decisions for him and let him in on the conversation that's been battling on inside your head?"

Sherlock almost wanted to laugh at how spot on that comment was. "Maybe," he murmured.

"I'm sorry it had to come to all this tonight. But may I make a suggestion?"

"Please."

"Talk to him when he wakes. I think he's smarter then you give him credit for."

"I know he's smart-"

"You know what I mean, Sherlock. I know this is all new for you. But I think you should tell him exactly how you feel. I've got a sneaky feeling that he will understand."

Sherlock swiped his fingers over his eyes and sniffed. "You might be right."

"It'll all be fine, dear. Everything will work itself out. Well except maybe for me."

Sherlock frowned. "Why won't it work out for you?"

The voice on the other end chuckled softly. "Well you won't very well need your mother any longer when you've got a boyfriend, now will you?"

Sherlock was momentarily stunned into silence, then blushed like mad and laughed softly. "Thank you, mummy."

"Anytime. Go get some sleep. You have a big day tomorrow."

"Good night."

Sherlock lowered his phone and stared at the screen, feeling better then he had in weeks. The embarrassing truth that he was a mama's boy wasn't something he chose to share with anyone if he could help it and he himself chose not to recognize. He chose to ignore the fact that every time he spoke with his mother, it made him feel exponentially better, and instead pretended he was strong enough not to still need his mum on occasion.

He'd been convinced a long time ago that he would never meet anyone who would understand him the way she seemed to. She knew how to speak to him properly, comfort him, but also kept a safe distance so he could maintain his independence. She'd always allowed him to determine what their relationship was. Sometimes they didn't speak for months on end. Sometimes Sherlock found himself taking a cab out to his childhood home and staying there for a few days. His mother never sounded surprised when he called or showed up and never asked any intrusive questions or demanded any information. She was just simply always there. Rarely did they have conversations like the one tonight, but there was an unspoken rule that it was always an option if he needed it. He'd gotten his sleeping habits from her and it often comforted him to know that when he was awake while the rest of London slept, so was she. Even if he hadn't spoken to her in weeks, it didn't matter.

Somehow, she'd convinced him his whole life that no matter what he did, even after the drugs, even with the promiscuity, she would still be there for him. She only offered her opinions when asked, only gave support when contacted. And sometime, long ago, he had been made certain that he'd never meet someone else who could do that for him. No one he'd met thus far had.

Their relationship was entirely one-sided. She took care of Sherlock, and Sherlock's father took care of her. She was Sherlock's sounding board, his anchor when he was driving himself mad, his conscience when he couldn't get out of his own way, anything he needed, she was. He hadn't realized it may be time to give that title to someone else, seeing as he hardly acknowledged that she currently held it. He'd never fully accepted that he needed his own mother in his life, which made it so much harder to admit now how desperately he needed John.

And now, it was time to right that wrong. Sherlock crept quietly to his room and peeked through the crack in the door. He watched as John's chest rose and fell, deep sleep claiming him, and Sherlock resisted the urge to crawl into bed and hold him, but vowed silently that in the morning, if John agreed to it, he would do just that and never ever let him go again.

****I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it. Thank you again for all the support on this story! You guys are fabulous and I so appreciate it all!****


	10. Chapter 10

****I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it. Warnings: Intense conversation and maybe a little sappiness. I must admit, I did not realize how heavy the last chapter was until a few of you wonderful readers pointed it out to me, so I feel a little guilty about not warning you better. I apologize! I'll try to be better about it? You all are amazing! Thank you again for following and commenting on this story!****

He couldn't seem to open his eyes as he slowly came back into the conscious world. He physically peeled each eyelid open and rubbed vigorously, trying to wipe away the swollen, leaky feeling and clear his vision. Before he could accomplish that, a burst of pain erupted just below his right eye and he yelped loudly. Touching his fingers to his cheekbone gently, he felt a sickly soft bump and grimaced, vaguely wondering how he received a black eye, but his head pounded too hard to allow him to care yet. He rolled over in silk sheets that felt like warm water against his skin and groaned.

When had his sheets gotten so soft?

And why did both his eyes feel like he'd been sobbing all night?

And why was Mike banging around outside his door?

And then, like flashes of bright light, bits and pieces of the night before rushed back to him and he bolted upright in bed, realizing too late what a giant mistake that was as his brain beat against its confined walls in protest, pulsing sharp pain across his vision.

He went to lay back down, but not before his sight cleared and he took in his surroundings and found how familiar this room was. Then the door creaked open and-

"Good morning," a low, familiar rumble came from the threshold and John rolled so quickly toward the sound he almost fell off the bed, realizing too late the covers seemed to be wrapped tightly around him.

"Jesus-Sherlock?" John blinked several times, unsure if he was actually seeing him or dreaming as he tried unsuccessfully to detangle himself from the sheets. He shook his head, another mistake, and groaned, placing his hand on his head. "What is going on?"

"First of all, I'm about 75% sure you're going to need to vomit soon if the amount of alcohol you consumed last night is any indication, so please stop moving so quickly," was Sherlock's reply.

John stared up at him for a long moment, and then the night before was flashing through his mind again. He remembered the club. He remembered yelling at Sherlock. He remembered a nice looking boy smiling at him… he remembered dancing…he remembered the cold brick pressed to his back in the dark alley…

And suddenly, a wave of nausea washed through him and his vision blurred slighty.

"Uhh..." was all he got out before a bin was shoved in his face and John vomited violently into it, heaving up all the liquor and memories and emotions from the night before into the small can. He couldn't bring himself to look up as Sherlock handed him a wet flannel and took the used bin out of the room. He came back swiftly, a steaming mug in hand, and gently pushed it into John's grasp. John took it willingly, the smell of tea calming his spinning world a bit. He settled back on the pillows as the heated water soothed his now burning throat.

He took another sip and then turned to look at Sherlock, who was hovering next to the bed. John opened his mouth, prepared with a barrage of questions, but another bout of queasiness washed over him. He dove off the bed, stumbled to the loo and emptied his stomach into the toilet, retching brutally. His body shook uncontrollably as everything he'd consumed in the last 24 hours reappeared.

"I'm sorry," he groaned, when he saw Sherlock looming in the doorway. "I should try to get home."

A small pile of clothing was set down next to him, along with fresh towels and a toothbrush.

"You did nothing wrong," Sherlock murmured so softly John almost didn't hear it. "And you're not going anywhere until you're well. Take a shower, alright? It'll make you feel better. I'll make some breakfast."

John couldn't bring himself to look at him, but nodded. Sherlock left him to it, closing the door behind him. John crawled pathetically to the shower, turned it to scalding hot, and lifted himself over the lip of the tub, laying down on the shower floor and yanking the curtain shut behind him.

The water ran down his aching body in smooth streams, bringing John back around to himself again slowly. He closed his eyes and inhaled, the steam helping to clear his foggy head. He didn't want to face Sherlock. Not while he was like this. Why wasn't he home being pitiful in the privacy of his own loo? Why did he have to wake up like this in Sherlock's flat? When was he going to stop having such mortifying moments in front of Sherlock Holmes?

He had another urge to vomit when his stomach rolled tellingly as his thoughts spun. The last time he'd been in this flat, he'd been kissing Sherlock like mad one moment and being kicked out the next. The embarrassment of that moment hadn't quite subsided, although yelling at Sherlock last night had helped a little. He was still hurt as hell though. He was slowly moving past the event, but it still wasn't nice to know officially that he had zero chance with Sherlock. The rejection still ached. Not even yelling at him last night could make that stop. And, God, dancing with that random guy had seemed like such a brilliant idea at the time. Get out there and see about dating or hooking up or anything besides pining after Sherlock.

And then the entire previous night came screaming back to him.

John threw his hands to the shower floor, shifting his weight forward as he dry-heaved loudly into the hot water. He took several deep breaths, knowing there was nothing else in his system to come up, and finally his body settled back down. He tossed a hand against the side of the tub to steady himself as he rose to his feet, clutching his cheek as he remembered everything.

He had been hit before. Plenty of times during rugby, a couple late night bar brawls with Mike, and once or twice at home, but never had he been hit in quite that context. What a fucking idiot he had been. Agreeing to go somewhere with someone he didn't know in the state he was in? He'd promised Mike he'd be smart… and he'd done the exact opposite of being smart.

And then Sherlock had…

John snapped his head up. Sherlock. Sherlock had been there. Sherlock had beaten up the guy.

John sat down on the shower floor again, remembering Sherlock picking him up off the concrete, dragging him to the street, holding him in the car that took them home, tucking him into bed.

He bit back tears of humiliation as he remembered. He'd been a pathetic, sobbing mess and Sherlock had taken care of him, even after all the hurtful things John had said. Probably felt sorry for him. Maybe that was what his relationship with Sherlock was destined to be. A constant stream of embarrassing, weak moments.

John shook his head, and crawled out of the shower. He needed to get out here. He needed to go home.

His clothes from the night before were gone. John would have flushed if his skin weren't already burning from the heat as he realized Sherlock had snuck into the bathroom while he was showering. Well, apparently going home right this minute was out of the question. He was certainly not going to walk home in pajamas. After toweling off and dressing ridiculously in Sherlock's oversized sweatpants and almost too tight shirt, John gathered his bearings and wandered to the kitchen.

He passed through the main room and noticed the couch had been made up. He felt a wave of guilt as he realized his drunken self had kept Sherlock out of his own bed. He tried to shake it off and stood in the entry way to the kitchen for a moment, staring at the back of Sherlock's head. He was standing at the stove, a spatula in hand, quietly going about making eggs. John cleared his throat uncomfortably. Sherlock didn't turn around.

"Have a seat," he said in his deep drawl and John slid into a chair at the table in the center of the kitchen. He watched as Sherlock poured water from the kettle into a mug, turned to place it front of John, and ran a keen eye over John's body. His expression gave nothing away but John, as always under that translucent gaze, felt exposed.

"Where are my clothes?" He said dumbly, wishing he could get them back and leave as soon as possible.

Sherlock turned back to the stove as he said, "I'd like to talk to you. Couldn't very well have you running off before that, now could I?"

John rubbed at the back of his neck, feeling anxious. He didn't want to talk. He'd made a fool of himself last night, then cried like some pathetic child to someone who he hardly could even call his friend any longer. He didn't want to make it worse. "Look, I don't know if you just feel bad because I yelled at you, or whatever, but I brought that shit on myself last night. I appreciate what you did and everything, but I know we're not exactly...friendly anymore so. You don't need to feel obligated to help me out when I make poor decisions just because you feel guilty."

Sherlock whirled around so quickly, John immediately dropped his gaze to the table, cheeks burning. John could feel Sherlock's eyes on him, searching every crease and crinkle on his face. John did his best to keep his features neutral.

"You...you think last night was your fault." Sherlock murmured, almost to himself.

John looked up in pure surprise, confusion creasing his forehead. "Who else's fault would it be?"

Sherlock's face darkened rapidly, his clear eyes thunderous and John all but shrank back, unsure how to respond.

"What." he muttered "I was the one that chose to drink that much. I agreed to go with... look it doesn't even matter. I appreciate what you did, but I shouldn't have gotten myself in that situation to begin with."

Sherlock's eyes closed for a good fifteen seconds, and John sat silently, having no idea to what to make of this discussion.

"John," Sherlock spoke suddenly and softly, without opening his eyes, his voice as deep and as quiet as John had ever heard it. "It doesn't matter how drunk you were. No one has the right to touch you when you've very clearly said no."

"But I had said yes to going out-"

"Stop." Sherlock held his hand up as his eyes snapped open. "I will not sit here while you justify why it was alright for that…_man_ to do what he did. It wasn't. End of discussion."

John blinked, trying to understand how the conversation had gotten to this point. All he could do was stare back. "Alright, well it's not that big of a deal you know."

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment.

Then rolled his eyes.

_Rolled his eyes!_

"What?" John bit out, irritated at how confusing this little chat was. Why were they talking about this?

Sherlock had turned back to the pan on the stove, speaking calmly. "I sincerely hope you are not so stupid to truly believe what happened last night was simply because you chose to consume an extreme amount of alcohol. The man who dragged you to the dance floor, then requested you come to the alleyway with him was a predator, John. Not some nice guy who you accidently made angry enough to attack you."

John flinched at that description of what happened. "I'm not some victim," he murmured.

"Yes, unfortunately, last night that's exactly what you were."

John glared at Sherlock's back. "Well thanks," he said bitterly. "Is this what you wanted to talk about? Because I think I've heard about enough, so if you will kindly get my clothes, I think I'll be on my way-"

"Why are you accepting what happened so easily?"

John shrugged, desperate to end this conversation. "It wasn't a big deal. I've been hit before."

Sherlock's back bristled at his words. "Lovely. So this is an on-going occurrence then?"

"What, no!" John said hastily. "No, I don't go to dark alleys and get punched on a regular basis. The guy was just having a bad night. It's just a black eye, I figured out how to take care of one a long time ago. I'll survive. Seriously, it's not a-"

"Do not finish that sentence." Sherlock growled.

"What is your problem?" John asked, suddenly exasperated. "Can you just spit out what you want to say? I'm getting really sick of this conversation."

Sherlock didn't move for a moment, and then said, "What do you mean you 'figured out how to take care of one'?"

John rolled his eyes. Of course he would ask another question instead of getting to the fucking point. "I googled it like a normal teenager. I did play rugby you know, I'm used to having bruises."

Sherlock suddenly spun around and stared at John, eyes wide and blazing. "You think _that_ is what normal teenagers do? Google their injuries and figure out how to take care of them on their own?"

John froze, knowing he was missing something, knowing he must have just given something away about himself that only Sherlock could pick up on. He furrowed his brow, looking at everything except Sherlock, trying to figure it out, trying to-

"John," Sherlock's voice was soft, not quite sweet but it had lost all the bite it held only moments ago. "John, look at me."

Unsure of what else to do, John's blue eyes met Sherlock's now green.

"If I hadn't been there last night, and you had somehow gotten away still with a black eye or worse, would you have told anyone?"

Knowing full well he'd never get a way with a lie, John tried to shrug non-chalantly. "Probably not."

Sherlock's eyes were burning again. "Do you think no one would care if you were hurt like that, John? Do you think last night was just another day, another issue you have to deal with on your own? Do you truly believe someone trying to incapacitate you to take advantage of you was really 'not that big of a deal'?"

Okay, that was it. John had had enough. He glared daggers. "I don't need you feeling sorry for me," he bit out with as much venom as he could. "I can take care of myself just fine. Sorry you feel bad about being such a dick last week but you and I are not friends anymore. You have no right to talk to me like this."

Sherlock rounded the table, storming closer to where John was sitting, his body vibrating with anger. "Feel sorry for you?" he spat, "Do you think I dole out sympathy so easily? I hate to break this to you, seeing as you're so hell bent on believing no one does, but I care about you John and witnessing what happened to you hurt me. And it wasn't because I felt bad about kissing you, because frankly, I don't. I wanted to kiss you and I did because I do what I fucking want to."

"Oh how nice for you," John almost yelled back, "I'm so glad you wanted to kiss me, oh how special I feel now that I know Sherlock Holmes wanted to kiss me. Did you also want to humiliate me and shove me out of your flat after you got me to admit I wanted you? Was that just some sick power trip for you? People don't do shit like that to people they care about so if that's you caring, I can do without it."

Sherlock scoffed and then matched his tone, getting up in his face. "No, I didn't ask you to leave after kissing you for a power trip, you ignorant bastard."

"Oh yeah? Then why?"

"Because I'm terrified, John!" Sherlock bellowed, his eyes wild and panicked as though the words he spoke were so foreign, he wasn't sure how they were even falling from his mouth. He took a step back as though startled.

John was truly not expecting that response. He had no idea how to respond. He stared at Sherlock, slack jawed, both of them seemingly trying to get their wits about them.

"Wh-what are you terrified of?" John all but whispered, suddenly feeling the shift in the atmosphere.

Sherlock shook his head, then snapped his head up to look straight at John. "I don't know how to do this," he was almost whispering now, staring almost desperately at John, as though trying to will him to understand. "I don't know how to be what you need. I don't know how to be with someone the way I wish to be with you."

John's mouth had gone dry, his head spinning for more reasons then the hangover. "What- what are you talking about?" he said, keeping his voice as low as Sherlock's had been.

Sherlock ran his hands agitatedly through his hair and pulled at the curls almost viciously, chewing at his lower lip. "Dammit," he murmured to himself, his eyes darting around as if trying to find the answer somewhere in the air. "I can't. I can't. I don't know-"

"Sherlock," John heard himself whisper and saw his hand laid on Sherlock's shoulder. John felt desperate to understand and scared to get his hopes up and so lost as to what was going on with the man in front of him. He took a deep breath as Sherlock finally stopped his panic and looked at him, dropping his hands from his hair. His curls stood on end in the most adorable way and John tried to offer a smile. "Yes you can," John murmured. "Tell me."

Sherlock seemed to relax under John's touch and words and let out a long breath. "Okay," he murmured as John dropped his hand. "Okay, John." He nodded once and then spoke, his voice stronger then before, more confident. "I've never been in any type of...I once told you that I do not have friends like you. That statement was true. A truer statement would be that I do not have friends at all, nor do I have relationships of any kind. Then you came along and...changed that."

Sherlock paused and looked away as though weighing something in his mind. John noticed his hand shaking silently and stared at the man, realizing how difficult this truly was for him. John's heart pounded a little harder, suddenly finding himself being privy to something as private as Sherlock's inner thoughts. He'd been so angry with him this past week he hadn't realized how much he missed the intrigue he had toward this man, how fascinated he was by him. He forgot how much he loved the mysteries of Sherlock and now here he was, gaining more access then he ever had before, information about how Sherlock felt. How Sherlock felt about _him_ of all things. It was exhilarating and wonderful and maybe a little nerve-wracking and John felt totally out of his depth. He waited patiently and silently, afraid if he spoke the spell would be broken and Sherlock may stop spilling his secrets.

"I've recently realized that after these past few months, I care more deeply about you then I have about anyone before," Sherlock continued slowly, his gaze slowly coming up to meet John's. "However, I was under the impression that I was incapable of providing you what you would need in...well in a friend, let alone a romantic partner. While I still do have that fear, I feel that I may no longer have a choice in the matter, seeing as I cannot keep myself away from you." He reached a hand out and cupped John's cheek in his warm hand. John subconsciously pushed into the touch. "I don't want to continue to pretend that I don't want you," Sherlock was whispering again. "Because I do. I do so bloody much."

John's face flamed, his eyelids fluttering slightly at the intimacy of the moment. He'd never been looked at the way Sherlock was looking at him right now and he was positively drunk on it, after so many months of wishing and wanting this. He hadn't heard himself breathing for a long time and took a big gulp of air, trying to keep himself steady. "Sherlock," was all he could breath. Was this real? Did Sherlock actually just say those things to him?

"It's also been pointed out to me," Sherlock continued softly, "that this may not be only my decision to make and that I should let you in on the conversation going on inside my head." His lips spread into a small smile at this last statement as though recalling a fond memory and John wondered who had given him that advice.

Sherlock dragged his fingers gently down John's cheek, touching his jaw and neck before dropping his hand back to his side. He nodded once to himself as though he had gotten over the hardest part. His features stayed soft as he continued to speak.

"That being said, I ask that you please heed my warning when I say I am no good at any of this. I have no experience in this area and I don't want to ask you to be with me, only to disappoint you. I want you to be aware of all the facts before you make your decision."

John blinked. "What decision?"

"I'd like to ask that you partake in the discussion of us becoming something more then friends," Sherlock finished.

John nodded, though still feeling like a thick fog was hanging over his thoughts. It was suddenly everything he hadn't known he wanted to hear for so long. But a cold, aching fear came over him. He didn't want to believe all of this was true yet. He had to be sure. Sure that Sherlock could truly want him even now.

"You don't think... less of me after last night?"

"John." The tone was warning and John shook his head.

"No no, I know where you stand on the...assault issue but what about the drinking and the dancing and the groping and the snogging? Or after that? When I cried like a baby? When you had to take care of me like a child? You don't think me some sad, pathetic kid?"

Sherlock frowned in genuine confusion for a moment and then his features softened, realizing John's sense of fear. "Did you think less of me when you had to get me home last week from the park and then patch up my wound?"

John shook his head hastily. "Not at all. I...I liked it. I mean, I didn't like that you were so exhausted and I didn't like that you were hurt. But I liked being able to take care of you."

Sherlock gave him a knowing look and John looked down at his feet. "Oh." The happiness in his heart was palpable but still, he wasn't sure if he could believe it. Was this really happening? Did Sherlock really feel this way about him? He was more then hesitant to truly believe it, everything that had happened still fresh in his mind.

"It's new for me too," Sherlock said quietly. "Someone caring for me like that. Someone wanting to care for me like that. It's an odd but not altogether unpleasant feeling."

John nodded, still trying to grapple with what was happening.

"John," Sherlock said softly, stepping closer to him.

John looked back at him, then let out a shaky breath. "Yeah, turns out this is kind of scary," he huffed a laugh. He reached out an unsteady hand and laid it on Sherlock's chest. "I... I like you too." Sherlock grinned and John giggled. "I know you already knew that, but it seems like you just put all your feelings on the table and I didn't want to leave you hanging."

"Duly noted and appreciated," Sherlock said, laying his hand on top of John's on his chest. John stared at their hands for a moment, then looked up to find those now-silver eyes staring at him as though he were the most precious thing in the world.

"Sherlock," he breathed and then those sensual, cupid's bow lips were on his, pressing so soft and gentle. John hummed quietly, suddenly feeling all the tension and anger and disappointment and frustration from the last week drain out of him and he moved closer, pressing his body to Sherlock's, sealing them together. He found his fingers tangling in Sherlock's already messy curls, and lean, strong arms curled around his back, holding him tightly but soothingly and John grinned against the kiss. Sherlock smiled back and soon they were laughing, still holding tightly to each other, kissing between giggles.

This must be what happiness felt like.

Sherlock laid a few more chaste kisses on John's lips, then one against his cheek. John settled back on his heels, realizing he'd been on his toes, as he thought Sherlock was pulling away, but Sherlock followed him down, wrapping his arms further around his waist and holding him in a genuine embrace. John melted into the hug, not realizing how badly he needed someone to hold him like this, and buried his head in Sherlock's neck. He remembered Sherlock holding him in the car last night and he gripped tighter to him, silently thanking him for being there for him, protecting him when he so obviously needed it, even if he didn't know it. Sherlock's grip on him was warm and inviting and a little possessive and John drank it in. He didn't know he had a need to feel possessed like this but being wanted by Sherlock Holmes was... intoxicating. He reveled in it.

He pulled back all too soon, deciding he didn't want to feel Sherlock initiating the detanglement, sure Sherlock must be getting anxious, seeing as he wasn't one to stand idle often. Sherlock unwound his arms and instead settled them on John's waist as they found each other's eyes again. Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his forehead to John's.

"You're not going to kick me out this time?" John rasped and Sherlock pulled back, startled and obviously ready to convince John otherwise. He caught John's smirk and rolled his eyes.

"You're not going to forgive me for that, are you?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," John gave him a knowing smile. "Come on. I'm sure those eggs you made are fried to shit now but I bet we can scrounge something else up. We have a conversation to have, yeah?"

Sherlock grinned and nodded. "Yes, I believe you're correct."

****I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it.****


	11. Chapter 11

****I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it. Warning: This is where the story descends into gradual new relationship smut. Not your thing? Probably should stop reading now… The rest of you lovely people who've been AMAZINGLY supportive? Enjoy!****

He was storming through campus like a bat out of hell, willing himself not to break out in a full run but moving as quickly as possible. His body language demanded people move out of his way because he needed to be somewhere right this damn minute and he didn't have time to worry about being polite.

It had been five excruciatingly long days since he and Sherlock had that fateful conversation, and if John were being honest, he couldn't remember half of what was said. He knew what the overall decision had been, and he knew where they stood, but if anyone asked him to repeat any sentence, he may be able to recall two or three before going entirely blank.

A man John had been mad about for months finally told him he was interested, kissed him soundly, made him breakfast, exchanged a few chaste touches, and then informed him he wanted to court John. Court him. Like they were living in the fucking Victorian Age.

At the time it had sounded romantic.

Now it felt utterly ridiculous. And absolutely terrifying.

Because John was horny. So fucking horny, 18 years of fucking horniness, and now, finally_, finally_ he had a gorgeous bloke who had expressed deep interest in him and damn it all to hell, he wanted him. So badly. So badly it ached. Almost worse then when he thought he had no chance at all. He wanted to touch him, to be touched by him, to learn each other's bodies, to feel and listen and give and take and _fuck_ he needed him. He _needed_ Sherlock.

But what the hell did he know about any of this? The things that came along with that gorgeous bloke was intense sexual experience and expectations and possibly demands and John's brain went in to overdrive with absolute panic all week long. He wanted him, he knew that, but what if he wasn't enough? What if teaching John wasn't something Sherlock was interested in? The man was not much for patience. What if he couldn't wait for John to catch up? What if their sex life was awful because of John and Sherlock lost interest immediately?

That thought alone brought a lump to John's throat.

He'd figure it out. He would sort this all out, do his very best to pleasure and please and ensure that Sherlock did not get bored or annoyed or uninterested. He'd make it good. To keep someone like Sherlock Holmes, he'd have to.

So for five long, painful days, John had gone back and forth between aroused an terrified in the same second over and over again. He wanted everything with Sherlock, every bit of everything. But what if everything he had to give back wasn't enough?

Shortly after breakfast and their discussion, Sherlock had _kindly_ tossed him out, truly kindly, saying Mike was worried sick from the night before and Sherlock didn't want to keep him from his flatmate, giving some speech about not interfering with friendships. John had protested and Sherlock had promised dinner Friday, then hailed him a cab and kissed his cheek.

It felt sweet and exciting in the moment.

A day later it felt cruel and frightening.

Because now John had had all the time in the world to think. Really truly think about what this all meant and what could happen and what was most certainly going to happen. None of this had ever been a possibility in John's short life and he'd never thought that when fantasy turned into reality it would be feel so foreign and unknown and scary.

But that first day? Oh, that first day had been all magic and wonder and exciting anticipation and lovely, really and truly lovely. A few hours after he'd left his flat, John received his first text message from Sherlock Holmes. And it was a good one.

**I think I rather regret sending you home. –SH**

John had grinned like a fool and replied:

**Not my choice, mind you. –JW**

**Make it up to you Friday? –SH**

**How about tomorrow? –JW**

**Can't. I'll explain later. –SH**

The mysteries around Sherlock only seemed to intensify after they "came clean" about their feelings to each other. Sherlock had gone on a rant during their conversation and the only phrases John could remember were 'can't reveal everything about myself right away' and 'things I will need to tell you but not all at once' and that he wanted John to 'be very observant' when they spent time together. The one clear sentence John could cough up was: 'I don't want you to make your decision until you've seen and heard everything about me.'

Unfortunately, all the things John wanted to see and hear involved a naked version of Sherlock, and wished he could explain how deeply disappointing it was to not have all his fantasies come true after they'd discussed their situation. John had tried to inform Sherlock his mind was made up and he wanted to be with him, but it had been no use. Sherlock wouldn't accept an answer until after he'd fully courted John and revealed all of his secrets in the process.

Of course that had been on Sunday. Now it was Friday and reality was descending upon him like a fucking meteor shower.

After a full week of frustratingly teasing text messages, Friday was here. John hadn't seen Sherlock at all in five days.

But Sherlock had seen John. And it sent him spiraling into panic every single time.

While on his run Monday afternoon:

**I can't decide if I like a clean John Watson better then a sweaty John Watson. Need time to think it over. –SH**

While in the library Tuesday night:

**So serious and studious. –SH**

**It's sexy. -SH**

While walking through campus on Wednesday:

**I like that color on you. Wear it Friday? –SH**

While out to lunch on Thursday:

**Extra fries today? Naughty boy. –SH**

While sitting in Chem Lecture Friday morning:

**Hopefully your pens have been holding up better now that a woman is teaching your class. My office at 5:00 tonight? –SH**

John had given up trying to find him, resolving he probably had cameras planted all over campus. Or something equally creepy.

John couldn't think it through too much. Truthfully, he didn't care. All he knew was it was a turn on to be messaged like that at random and equally awful to be reminded of what was soon to be expected of him and he'd been keyed up all week. His responses to each message were somewhere between requesting and begging to see Sherlock, but he'd barely get a one-word response of 'busy' or 'Friday.' He just wanted to see him, get started and get it done. He felt like his entire body was being torn in two, one side begging for a satisfying orgasm by the hands of someone other then himself, and the other side twisting with dread at the prospect of failing to assist another person in getting off. It was horrible and achy and made John consider going off sex for life. It had worn on John's libido all week long, wounding him so tightly he was ready to snap in half.

Now, he tore through the building's front doors and barreled down to Sherlock's office. No stopping now. He was doing this. He was jumping, taking a leap and getting it done. Sink or swim time. Either a beautiful beginning to a budding relationship or a miserable, embarrassing end. One way or the other, it would be decided.

He knocked hard three times, very nearly pounding in his haste, and was on his toes ready to pounce when-

A short, dark haired woman pulled the door open and John nearly lost his footing in his realization that the person answering the door was not Sherlock.

"Ah, John, nice to see you," Sherlock said from behind her, the smirk in his voice evident. John looked back and forth between the two of them, trying to wrap his mind around what was happening, slowly pushing through his lust and panic-filled haze. His hormones were raging on so viscously he actually genuinely considered pushing right past this woman and throwing Sherlock on the desk.

The woman eyed him for only a moment more then glanced down at the blackberry in her hand. "He's putting in an effort to be civil, you know," she spoke down in to her phone and John felt a tiny prick of fear on the back of his neck that she may be speaking to him, about what he had no idea. Luckily, Sherlock laughed condescendingly in response to her comment and John took it that they were carrying on a conversation he was most definitely not a part of. He stood awkwardly in the doorway as they continued to speak indirectly to each other.

"Think it over," the woman said. John turned to look at Sherlock who was scowling at the back of the woman's head.

"Good evening, Anthea," Sherlock said tightly.

The woman, whose name was apparently Anthea, walked toward the door, nose still in her phone. John watched her, still frozen in place until she finally looked up and raised an eyebrow. "Do you mind?"

John nearly jumped out of the way. "Right. Right, sorry."

She didn't respond, or look at him again and exited the office, sashaying down the corridor. John watched her for a moment, dumbfounded. He slowly turned back to Sherlock, who was settling back in his chair behind his desk.

"Who the hell was that?" John snapped, more then a little irritated that his plans to ravage Sherlock were derailed by some random woman.

"Someone as equally irritating as my brother," Sherlock said dismissively, then ran his eyes down John's tightly coiled body. "What's the matter with you?" Before he'd fully finished the sentence, Sherlock's mouth was turning up in a smirk.

John narrowed his eyes. "Nothing," he spat, knowing full well how unreasonable his anger was. He was being completely ridiculous but Christ, this was the closest he'd been to Sherlock in days and it was making John's body temperature spike to unhealthy levels.

Sherlock was no longer looking at him, gathering his laptop and some papers from his desk and shoving them into a bag as though he hadn't just caught on to everything going on inside John's mind. John knew better then to believe that. He would be fine with Sherlock thinking he was aroused. Hopefully, he'd hidden the panic with the anger.

"Right then. I believe I owe you din-" Sherlock's words were cut off by a shrill ring of his phone.

John almost growled with frustration. He didn't want dinner, or to be interrupted one more sodding time while he was alone with Sherlock. He wanted to get going, get this anxiety resolved before he lost his nerve entirely. Lust was slowly taking over him as he stared at those dark curls and he considered maybe he could get through this alright. He just needed to get started. And to stop bloody _thinking_.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock answered his cell, pressing the phone to his ear and staring down at his desk, listening. John glared at him. Sherlock knew, he fucking knew, and he wasn't going to do anything about it. He'd wound him up all week, and now he was having strange meetings with random women and secret phone calls while John was raring and willing in the seclusion of his office. The fucking bastard.

John watched as the light changed in Sherlock's eyes, that familiar spark twinkling within the depths of his irises. Sherlock looked up at him, eyes wide with anticipation by whatever information was coming to him from the other line and John's heart sank all the way down to his toes. More waiting. More time to think and worry and stress. Great.

"I'll be right there," Sherlock said into his mobile.

Bugger.

John watched as Sherlock bundled up in his long coat and scarf, and strode right past him. "Got to dash, there's been a development," he said casually as he waltzed out the door.

John stood, still trying to catch up with what just happened. Not but ten minutes prior, John had been on his way here, ready to jump Sherlock, and now he was being ditched? How did the night he'd been anticipating for a week go to hell in a hand basket so quickly? John felt the rage rising again, his body almost shaking.

"John?"

He whipped around to find Sherlock peeking around the corner of the office John was still standing in.

"What?" John replied angrily.

Sherlock creased his brow. "Aren't you coming? We've got a date."

John stared at him for a long moment. "But I thought…you said…what?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "As I recall, I informed you I wanted to share things with you about my life. Do keep up, John."

John glared at him. "You just said you were leaving."

"I assumed it was implied that you were coming." Sherlock was pulling on his gloves as though John weren't seething in front of him.

The tension in John's body remained, as it had for five damn days, but the anger subsided. This was important to Sherlock. This was Sherlock sharing. John couldn't be angry about that.

Even if it kept him from finally getting to the resolution he'd been dreading.

"Alright," he murmured and narrowed his eyes at Sherlock's triumphant grin. John followed him out the door and, yet again, into a taxi. "Okay, but really, you have to tell me this time."

Sherlock frowned. "Tell you what?"

"Tell me where we're going. I want to be prepared for whoever we're spying on this time."

Sherlock sighed. "John, you must stop assuming things. Assuming we're going to a break in, assuming we're spying on someone. My work if often unpredictable, and it won't be easy for you to determine what comes next, so why tell you where we are starting?"

John rolled his eyes. "Unpredictable indeed," he muttered, trying to subtly adjust his trousers.

"Oh right. Sorry, I thought this was obvious but I will go ahead and tell you directly that we won't be having sex for a while," Sherlock said off-handedly as he stared down at his cellphone.

John sputtered and flushed immediately, wholly unprepared for _that_. He internally battled with disappointment, relief, anxiety and embarrassment in the blink of an eye, trying to process what and why the hell those words had just come out of Sherlock's mouth. He noticed the cabby eyeing them in the review-mirror but he ignored him. "Wh- I didn't-That wasn't-…" John sighed. There was never a point on lying to Sherlock. "Why not?" he decided on, as childish as it sounded. Truthfully, waiting just sounded so much worse then getting it over with. He didn't want to be in too deep when he was officially rejected. That just seemed cruel.

Sherlock looked up from his mobile. "I told you. I'm courting you. I'm going to take my time and make sure you're really prepared for all this before we move forward with our relationship."

John stared at him for a long moment. What a blow that was. No sex? Did that mean nothing at all? No touching or anything? John fidgeted in his seat, feeling more and more anxious.

"Besides," Sherlock continued, glancing back down to his mobile, "I like the idea of seducing you."

John pursed his lips, waited a beat, then decided a bold move might benefit him. He didn't want to be seduced. He didn't want Sherlock to drive him totally out of control to the point that he couldn't reciprocate properly and therefore be deemed a poor lover. He was so far gone already, so dizzy from the constant battle in his head the last five days, he needed to do something. He narrowed his eyes. Sherlock's denial was easy when John wasn't giving him a little nudge. How would he do when John was pushing a little bit more? He scooted closer to Sherlock and slid his hand onto Sherlock's thigh, slowly soothing it further between his legs. "I think you know," he murmured softly, leaning closer, "that I don't need seducing."

Sherlock turned his head, eyed John for only a moment, then nudged his nose against John's cheek to turn his head slightly and pressed his lips to John's ear. "Oh, believe me, I'm well-aware. And if I were interested in rushing this, I wouldn't have let you leave my bed last weekend. Ever." He snuck his tongue into John's ear, applying the softest bit of pressure and John shuddered violently. "But I promise you, John Watson," he purred, "the wait will be oh so worth it." Sherlock pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, lingering a moment longer to breath a hot breath against his damp skin, then turned back to his phone.

John felt like his body was just lit on fire by a match only Sherlock possessed. His hand on Sherlock's thigh trembled as he stared at this ridiculously sexy man next to him, insinuating obscenely dirty things to him and then blatantly denying him all of it. Sherlock, without looking over at him, placed a gloved finger under John's chin and pressed upward, gently closing his gaping mouth.

"Unfair," John whispered, figuring it was useless to try to hide how turned on his was. He kept his body pressed to Sherlock's, overly enjoying the touch. "So you're just going to tease me until you see fit?" God that sounded positively miserable.

Sherlock only smirked in response as the cab slowed to a stop. "Ah, good, we're here."

Sherlock dove out of the cab and John hurried after, willing his lower half to calm the fuck down and his brain to focus on normal things like walking and speaking.

A very serious and angry man was barreling toward Sherlock and grasped his arm before John was even fully out of the car.

"Over here," the man hissed, yanking Sherlock by the arm around the side of the building they'd pulled up in front of.

Sherlock didn't seem one bit perturbed. "Sergeant Lestrade. Pleasure, as always."

"What the bloody hell are you doing here?" The Sergeant spat. "I told you- who the hell is this?"

John slowly approached the two feeling awfully unsure of himself, fully aware he was missing something vital but had no idea what it was.

"He's my partner," Sherlock replied flippantly.

John's insides warmed immediately. Partner? Yes, absolutely acceptable. They hadn't discussed what their titles were to each other (Boyfriend? Lover?) but he'd take the title of Sherlock's partner any day of the week.

He tried to ignore the wave of anxiety at the prospect of sex ruining that.

Lestrade looked a little confused and glanced between John and Sherlock then said, "Your…partner?"

"Of course. You wouldn't expect a detective to work alone, now would you?"

Oh. Not romantic partner. Work partner. Wait, what? Detective?

Lestrade glared at him. "You always work alone."

Sherlock shrugged. "Well not any longer. Now may I have a look at the crime scene?"

Lestrade was still eyeing John as Sherlock spoke, and bristled as he looked back at him. "Absolutely not," he snapped. "I told you I'd send you information that you could work on later. I absolutely cannot have civilians trampling around a crime scene."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't be so dramatic. Do you or do you not want that Sergeant to be replaced with Detective Inspector one day? Come now. DI Lestrade? Has an awfully nice ring to it, wouldn't you say?"

Lestrade was glaring at him. "Stop trying to butter me up, Sherlock. No way in hell am I letting you in now."

"You texted me, remember?"

"To let you know I'd be sending you information! We cannot continue this. Not after the last time. You were taken hostage for Christ's sake."

John's stomach turned at that statement. Sherlock had been in trouble? Held hostage? When? He didn't like the sound of that at all. He stole a bewildered glance at Sherlock, who was decidedly not looking back. John resisted the urge to reach out and touch Sherlock, just to make himself feel better. To make sure he was alright.

The emotional turmoil John was experiencing was almost unbearable as every thought he'd had in the last five days collided with this new worry and he prayed to God it wasn't written all over his face.

But Sherlock was waving his hand as though Lestrade's statement was a ridiculous concern. "I had the situation under control."

"Yeah, you always say that," Lestrade retorted.

Sherlock tried to step around him and walk back to where the taxi had dropped them off, but Lestrade stepped in front of him. "No, Sherlock. I'll send you the information. Do I need to call your brother?"

It sounded like a threat to John but Sherlock laughed. "Is that meant to deter me? Yes please, call my stuffy, annoying brother, see if he can tear himself away from saving Britain from the attack its not under to help you keep me away from here. Go on, give him a ring. I'm sure the British Government wouldn't mind wasting precious time on Holmes the younger."

Lestrade rolled his eyes, then looked around as though he may be overheard. "I can-" he paused and glanced down at John.

"He's fine," Sherlock barked.

Lestrade let out a long-suffering sigh. "Look, I might be able to sneak you in the back in a few minutes. I can't let the others see you, alright?"

Sherlock nodded, looking off behind the man, obviously aware he would cave eventually.

Lestrade looked at John. "He stays here."

"Fine, fine," Sherlock mumbled, strolling toward the back of the building, apparently happy to leave John standing alone.

"I'm John, by the way," John said bitterly, sticking out his hand.

Lestrade eyed him for a moment, then shook his hand. "Greg Lestrade. Wish I could say it was a pleasure but anything concerning Sherlock usually isn't."

John actually wanted to laugh. Sherlock seemed to have one of two affects on people. They either fell all over themselves for him or absolutely hated him. John didn't have to guess to know which side he fell on.

"So a crime scene, huh? What happened?" he said, unsure what else to say to a sodding police officer.

Lestrade shot him a look. "I really can't say."

John shrugged. "Sorry." He thought for a moment and then said "Sherlock will probably tell me anyway."

Lestrade laughed to John's relief. "You're probably right. Still can't though. What are you doing with him, anyway?"

"We're friends."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "Friends?"

John shrugged again, trying to keep his face from heating up. "Yeah."

"Huh. I didn't know Sherlock had friends."

John could only nod, unsure what the hell to say in response to that. The Sergeant's phone dinged and he glanced down, eyes widening. "Precious time my arse," he mumbled down to his phone.

"Everything alright?" John asked curiously.

Lestrade glanced up at John and then off behind him back to the curb they'd been dropped off at. "Yeah," he said. "Everything's fine." He gestured back toward where they'd come from. "Why don't we have you wait over here?"

John was herded back to the curb as a black sedan pulled up, looking rather official and rather ominous and a cold sweat crept down the back of his neck as Lestrade swept open the door.

"He's inside so I'd say you've got about ten minutes with the boy," Lestrade was saying to an unseen person in the car.

"Very well," a soft, almost familiar voice replied from within.

Lestrade began to turn back around. "Alright John, my friend here would- are you alright?" He asked as he met John's wide-eyed stare. John stared at him incredulously. This was not the time for him to be kidnapped. Not when he was already to wrecked with every other emotion on the sodding planet.

"Aren't you the police?" John snapped. "Shouldn't you be telling people to _not _get in cars with strangers?" His voice was shrill with panic, feeling as though he were trapped, his fragile emotional state surging him into unstable territory.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Nothing is going to happen to you, John. This man is a friend of mine and would like to talk to you for a few minutes, alright? It's safe. I promise." He offered a small smile. "I'm the police, remember?"

John eyed him for a moment longer. This didn't feel right but this Sergeant seemed genuine. And Sherlock knew him, so that had to be a good sign. Just a few minutes. He gripped his phone in his pocket with one hand in case he needed to call the police. The irony was not lost on him.

He heard a strained sigh from within the black vehicle, and hesitantly crawled inside the darkness, his legs shaking violently. As he righted himself in the seat, he came face to face with a slender, ginger-haired man, dressed impecibly from head to toe, his face settled into a rather unpleasant smile. He gripped an umbrella across his lap, the object somehow matching his demeanor. John stared for a moment too long as the familiarity of this man tugged at him.

"Have we met?" John asked earnestly. He swore he knew him from somewhere. If he knew him then maybe this situation wasn't all bad and maybe John's leg would stop bouncing up and down so vigorously.

"No Mr. Watson, we haven't met," the man chuckled and John narrowed his eyes. The cadence of that voice was so… familiar. "But I'm glad we have this time to be introduced properly."

John cocked his head. "And you are?"

"An interested party," the man's smile was a bit sickening.

John glared. "Interested in what?"

The man's smile widened as he said, "You're awfully curious, aren't you? You can settle down now. Nothing is going to happen to you."

"Well when a mysterious man invites me into his car, yes I believe I do get a bit curious and unsettled," John spat back.

The man's face was unchanging. "A mysterious man invited you into his bed the night before the semester began and you didn't seem all that concerned about who he was."

John tried to force the blush away from his cheeks as he remembered the night he met Sherlock. "I may be wrong," he glowered, "but I think that's none of your business."

The man let out a fake laugh. "My, aren't you interesting. I can see why he likes you."

"Can we cut the cryptic talk and get down to what it is that you want?" John was normally more collected then this, but today was really not the day to fuck with him. Calm was the furthest thing from him right now.

The man cocked his head. "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

John knitted his brows together. "What?" That was the very last thing he'd been expecting, although what he was expecting he had no idea.

The man rolled his eyes. "Of course he'd pick someone so normal," he muttered.

"What? Are you a jealous ex or something?" Why had he said that? Well, if it wasn't obvious where his mind was, it would be now.

The man let out a real laugh this time. "Heaven's no!"

"Then why do you care about my relationship with Sherlock Holmes?"

The man arched an eyebrow. "Relationship?"

John flushed. "I don't even know what to call it," he admitted, trying to push away all the uncomfortable reminders that he may not be worth a relationship with Sherlock Holmes.

"Well you should sort that out then, shouldn't you?" The man said almost angrily and John subconsciously cringed back.

"If you're not some jealous ex-boyfriend, then why do you care what I call it?"

The man fixed him with an intense stare. "I worry about him. Constantly."

And suddenly, John knew exactly who this man was. He slapped a hand against his forehead. "Oh Jesus. You're Mycroft, aren't you?"

The minute twitch in Mycroft's eyebrow gave his surprise away but he collected himself about as fast as Sherlock always did. "My brother has mentioned me."

John nodded. "Yes, all of one time. But it's clear you're here for the obligatory big brother 'break his heart and I'll break your face' speech. Am I right?"

Mycroft frowned. "I wouldn't have put it exactly like that. But I do want to discuss a few things with you."

John visibally relaxed. "Discuss away. Now that I know you're not going to murder me, I feel much better about this conversation. Although that was the point of this, right? To scare me?"

Mycroft smirked. "Not at all. I simply like to know who my brother interacts with, however unsavory they may be."

John couldn't help taking the bait, swallowing thickly. "Unsavory?"

Mycroft arched an eyebrow in feigned surprise. "Oh dear me. He hasn't told you, has he?"

"Tell me what?"

* * *

><p>Sherlock stepped back out into the cold. What a waste of time and a waste of a missed date with John that was. A robbery in a museum. Really? The Yard couldn't do something so simple on their own? Of course it was a security guard. How dull. And annoying. Sherlock glared at anyone who chose to look him in the eye as he swept the area for John.<p>

He caught a blonde head jumping out of a black car and his insides went cold. He scowled at the car as it passed him, unable to see inside the tinted windows but knowing his brother was staring right back smugly. He rushed to John.

"Just met your brother," John said, running a hand threw his blonde fringe. "Nice guy."

Sherlock stopped short of reaching his arms around him and cautiously looked around. He then lunged for John's wrist and pulled him behind the building and out of sight.

John let out a small breath as Sherlock backed him into the wall of the alley.

"Are you alright?" he snapped, angrier then he'd meant but unable to stop the panic and fear from coming into his words.

Mycroft. Stupid, meddling, over-bearing Mycroft. Of course he would show up now. Trying to warn John about Sherlock, trying to scare him off. John was naïve, he may just believe him, may just buy whatever lies, or worse truths, Mycroft had told him. Mycroft's forte was manipulation. What had he said? What had he done? Sherlock's body shook as he spiraled into his own thoughts, dizzying and frightening as he realized that Mycroft may have just ended this for him before it even properly began.

While processing the end of his new relationship, Sherlock was scanning John's face for any signs of distress or horror or fear or anything resembling any sort of discomfort.

Staring back at him was none of those things.

Staring back at him was pure, animalistic arousal.

John's mouth hung open, his eyes planted firmly on Sherlock's lips, eyelids hanging low, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

The intended purpose of throwing John into a secluded area was to make sure he was alright. This was a rather welcome side-affect.

Sherlock wasn't sure who lunged first.

John's lips were just as soft as last week, warm and wet but more urgent today, more wanting. He pried Sherlock's mouth open as his fingers twisted into the lapels of his coat, yanking Sherlock forward. Sherlock didn't need an invitation, pressing John against the wall, their bodies flush against each other. Sherlock braced a hand behind John's head against the wall and grabbed John's hip as he delved his tongue into John's heated mouth, exploring every inch just to make sure he hadn't forgotten what he tasted like. But he hadn't forgotten, not for a second, because the tea and the coffee and the John spice was all there, just as he'd left it and he wanted more, so much more.

John was wrapping short arms around Sherlock's torso, rolling his hips and making those incredible noises again as he did the last time they'd kissed like this. A small whimper here, a sigh there, a gasp from a tongue twist or a lip bite, and a never-ending pull on Sherlock as though he couldn't quite get close enough. It was intoxicating and unsafe and not here, not here… _not here_.

"John," he murmured as John trailed wet kisses down his neck and hummed in his ear. "John, we're still outside."

John barely hesitated, freezing for all of one second before gripping Sherlock's hair and pulling his head back to get better access to his neck. "Don't care," John whispered between kisses. "Christ, I've wanted to do this all week." He licked a strip up Sherlock's neck and took his earlobe between his teeth. Sherlock shivered and John ran his fingers threw his hair again, soothing while he attacked his sensitive skin.

Inexperience was clearly not a deterrent for John Watson because when in the fuck had he gotten so good at this? Sherlock groaned quietly, enjoying the touches, not realizing until now how inattentive his lovers had been. Sure, he'd had his share of snogging in clubs and bars but not like this, not with someone attempting and succeeding at making him feel like _this_. There was always an end goal in those situations, both parties doing all they could to get to that part sooner, get the formality of kissing over with to get to the touching and the fondling and the orgasm.

And yes, all of those things were looming over this encounter with John but it was… more. So much more. It was enjoying and exploring and feeling and wanting to feel and giving and taking and while it was heated it was also tender and worshipping and caring about the other person. John was a little ball of pent up sexual angst and still here he was, paying close attention to how he was making Sherlock feel, how Sherlock was enjoying himself. It was beautiful and sweet and made Sherlock's only recently acknowledged heart ache to hold him closer and closer. He wrapped his arms around John's smaller frame and gently scooted him back. John whined at the loss of touch, his fingers still twined in Sherlock's hair.

"John," Sherlock panted. "We can't do this here. Let's-let's go back to my flat."

John's eyes widened and he paused for a moment before nodding. Sherlock wanted to laugh but John's blown pupils made him stop short. John slid his hand down Sherlock's arm and intertwined their fingers. Sherlock let himself smile as he turned back to the curb to hail a taxi.

The ride home was excruciatingly slow. John was wrapped around him like a vine, one hand on his knee, the other on the back of his head, holding him in place as he drove his tongue into his ear, tasting and biting and licking and sucking and driving Sherlock absolutely mad with lust.

It was so unexpected it made it all the better. Sherlock was sure he would become John's sexual tutor, teaching him and showing him everything, and he was sure he'd still be doing that as they became more intimate, but this? This attention to every detail, every response? This couldn't be taught. This was natural and John was perfect at it already.

John ran his tongue along the ridge of Sherlock's ear and squeezed his knee to emphasize it. Sherlock stifled a moan, keeping an eye on the driver who seemed oblivious to what was happening in the back of his cab, and Sherlock was grateful as he leaned into John's touch and closed his eyes. How had he been missing this all these years? How did caring and sentiment make snogging so much better?

"God, you're gorgeous," John murmured, biting his lobe and sucking it between his teeth. His fingers began trailing up Sherlock's leg. Sherlock laid his hand over top of it.

"Not yet," he purred back, taking the moment to gain the upper-hand and spun toward John, capturing his lips with his own, tracing a hand along his jaw. John squeaked, actually squeaked in surprise and Sherlock did everything in his power not to moan at that delicious sound. He seemed to be the only one that remembered they were still technically in a cab as John was currently trying to gain more leverage by crawling on top of him. Before he could get too far, the taxi grinded to a halt.

"Here you are," the cabbie said gruffly, clearly now just realizing what had been taking place behind him.

John didn't let go and Sherlock didn't want him to. He tossed a wad of bills at the cabbie and dragged John out of the cab and into his flat.

He was on Sherlock before the door was even closed.

"John," Sherlock groaned as John crowded him against a wall. "John, I need to say something,"

John was obviously in no mood to talk as he dove his tongue back into Sherlock's mouth. "No talking. No more talking," he said between kisses.

Sherlock couldn't help but laugh. How was it that John could be funny and sexy and adorable all at once? It wasn't fair. Sherlock felt hands pulling at his clothes and he ducked his head into John's neck. "John, I meant what I said earlier," he gasped out as John bit down on his collarbone.

"Hm," John hummed, still actively trying to remove Sherlock's shirt, slipping fingers between buttons and tugging ruthlessly at shirttails. His hands were frantic and almost too quick. Sherlock chalked it up to inexperience and arousal.

"Yes," Sherlock moaned, cursing quietly as John's fingers ran underneath his under shirt. "Yes, wait, yes John, no, wait," he tried to form a coherent sentence. John didn't help with that as he twisted one of his nipples. "John!" he cried, not nearly prepared enough for John's untrained hands to touch him like that. It was almost violent and desperate and fucking brilliant, but Sherlock needed to think, he needed to _think_. He couldn't do this to John, not like this, not this way. Not fast and needy and panicked.

"John," he groaned, "I meant it when I said we... we weren't going to...oh _god_-have sex yet," he finally managed.

His words didn't seem a detriment to John's plans as his mouth traveled down Sherlock's front, licking and sucking and biting and needing every inch of his torso.

"John," Sherlock moaned again, one hand slipping into John's hair, hazily debating if he should be pulling or pushing and settled on just resting and enjoying.

John's fingers touched his belt and his tongue flicked over the skin below his naval and Sherlock's eyes flew open.

"Wait! John!" he gasped, looking down to find John on his knees, blue eyes staring back at him.

"Come on," John whispered gruffly. "Teach me Sherlock. I know this is what you like. And I promise, I'm a quick study." Slowly, Sherlock's intelligents came back to him as he replayed those words. They were meant to be sexy. They were meant to tease and hint and play. But they came out wrong. They came out harsh and frantic and frightened. John tucked his fingers into Sherlock's belt.

Sherlock stilled immediately and gripped John's wrists, yanking him back up harder then he meant to. "You... you _know _this is what I like?" Sherlock demanded, almost angrily, searching John's eyes. "You think _this_ is what I want from you? Right now?"

The shocked look on John's face was almost enough to pull Sherlock out of his anger but not quite. He didn't want to hurt him but he didn't want this from John if the only reason John was doing it was because he assumed Sherlock wanted it. And dammit, he wanted to go slowly. He wanted these things to_ mean_ something. Not just a blowjob here or a quick fuck there. John was _important_. So fucking important and this wasn't how this was supposed to go. He barely kept himself from shaking.

John's eyes were the size of saucers, his cheeks flushed equally with arousal and embarrassment and… there it was, _fear._ John was scared as hell. Sherlock glared at him as he spoke. "I-I thought you'd...want that," John spluttered, so obviously confused and humiliated and lost. Sherlock placed his hands firmly on John's shoulders.

"I want to go slowly with you, John," he almost whispered. "I don't want you doing this because you think I want it. I want you to want it too and I can wait. I can wait for you to be ready."

John's eyes narrowed. "I'm ready." He would have sounded convincingly angry if the hint of hesitation hadn't snuck in at the last syllable.

Sherlock's face softened. "John," he murmured, sliding his hands up John's cheeks. "You are very important to me. This," he said, waving his hand between the two of them. "is important to me. I'd prefer not to bugger it up already." He offered a small smile.

"I just really..." John started then dropped his gaze to Sherlock's bare chest. "What if… what if I'm no good at it?" He murmured this so softly, Sherlock wasn't sure he'd heard right.

"What if your-" Sherlock froze, then pulled John's face back to look at him. "What if you're no good at sex?!"

John looked so confused and scared it tugged violently at Sherlock's heart, staring into those beautiful blue eyes, blazing with concern and fear.

"John," he murmured. Then he kissed him. Softly, with no intention behind it. Just a kiss. A gentle kiss exchanged between two new lovers, reassuring and sweet with a hint of passion and a dash of care.

"There is positively no way that you, John Watson, could be bad at sex," Sherlock murmured over John's lips. "Absolute rubbish. You and I? We'll be brilliant together. We've got chemistry like you wouldn't believe. And I should know. I've almost got a doctorate in it."

Finally, John's body began to relax under Sherlock's gentle touches and words. "But I've got no experience and you…"

"I know. And if you have questions, I will answer all of them. But I promise, you will be my first for so many things, John. We'll have to cross many bridges together. But I think we can do it."

He felt John smile against his lips. "Yeah. Yeah, we can do it. I just…" John sighed heavily. "I just really want you."

"You have me. And you can have me like that too. Just not quite yet, alright? Not until you're sure and comfortable. We'll work through it together. You've seen me teach, John. I think you can vouch that I'm excellent at it."

John laughed and nodded, still looking a bit rejected but seemed relieved. He wasn't ready for all this yet. He certainly thought he was, but Sherlock knew better and was going to make him wait just a bit longer. It would be worth it in the long run.

"Alright," John nodded at his shoes and slowly backed away. Sherlock reached a hand out and curled his fingers in his jumper.

"Where do you think you're going?" Sherlock purred, pulling John back to him.

John's pupils dilated. "I thought-you said..."

Sherlock grinned wickedly. "Just because we aren't going to have sex doesn't mean I can't still get _you_ off."

"Wha-_God,_" was John's only reply as Sherlock palmed his erection through his jeans. "Sh-Sherlock, fuck, Sherlock." John's eyes fluttered closed as his breathing sped up. Sherlock applied more pressure, doing his best not to smirk. But this was exactly what he'd been waiting for. To see John like this. All wrecked from a single touch, it was perfect. And he understood now why John was worried that he may be no good at this because being allowed to be the first person to touch John like this was… oh god, it was everything.

"You think I'd let you leave before giving you an orgasm?" he purred into his ear as John's forehead fell to his shoulder. "Do you have any idea how long I've waited to see you come, John?"

"Oh f-fuck," John stuttered, his sensitive, virgin body shuddering as Sherlock gripped him over his jeans. "Mm, tha-that's good."

Sherlock smirked, and squeezed and John's hips bucked violently. He was so sensitive to every little touch and Sherlock was reveling in it, cataloging every response.

"Sh-Sherlock," he whimpered. His name slipped out of John's mouth like a prayer, begging and thanking and wanting so equally. It was gorgeous.

Sherlock stuck his tongue in John's ear, deciding if he wasn't going to properly fuck him, he would penetrate him with his tongue and his words and drive him right over the edge. "Remember the night we met, John?" John nodded as he rocked his hips more insistently into Sherlock's hand. "Remember what the first thing I said to you was?"

"Mmh-oh," John murmured as he moaned audibly and jerked his body forward, holding tightly to Sherlock's shoulders.

"I meant," Sherlock bit his earlobe, "every," licked his ear, "single," groaned deeply, "word." then ducked his head and sucked John's neck.

"Oh-Sherlock!" John's hips stuttered and stalled and the moan that came from his lips was absolutely perfect. He cried out, tossing his head back and rolling his hips again and again, panting and groaning like he was dying, and holding so tightly to Sherlock it was painful. Sherlock held his hand firmly in place, letting John ride against him through his orgasm.

John was loud during sexual activity. Fascinating information. Store for later.

****I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it. That may or may not be just a taste of what is on its way with this story. Sorry for that mother of a chapter but I hope it was worth it! THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR FOLLOWING AND COMMENTING AND FAVORITING! You guys are amazing!****


	12. Chapter 12

****I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it. Warning: sexual things happening. I don't want to give anything away! Good enough warning?****

Sherlock was positively bursting with data. He ran back to his small flat, coat billowing out around him as he rushed to jam his key into the lock and get inside. He urgently whipped the door open and tossed himself in, brimming with excitement as he finally flung his coat off and dropped himself down onto the couch, closing his eyes to begin filing.

Oh what a week it had been! So much new information, so many interesting things going on, he could barely stand it. He'd solved three cases in two days for the idiots known as the police, completed his final assessment for his doctorate going into his final semester (tedious and boring but necessary) and snogged John senseless several times a day. That's where his mind was now: on the glorious new data of John Watson. He'd learned so much during their heated moments (and calm moments, come to think of it) and he'd been thrilled with the new information.

The first piece of data Sherlock was currently filing away: John was ridiculously sensitive to touch. Which was to be expected of course, but somehow seeing John react to even the smallest of attention made Sherlock preen shamelessly. Eliciting anything resembling pleasure from John's body counted as a win in Sherlock's book.

Of course now, Sherlock was finding it increasingly difficult to keep his hands off John. He'd sworn up and down they would take it slow, and he planned to keep that promise but John certainly wasn't making it easy on him. Since the day John met Mycroft, only five days previously, Sherlock had kept things at kissing. Not that there was anything chaste about the way they were kissing, and Sherlock knew that only made it worse, but he was determined to follow through with his plan. When he felt John's hands wander, he'd maneuver properly around them so as not to upset the kiss, but make it more difficult to let it go any further. John obeyed, growling quietly in frustration every time, and Sherlock physically gripped at John's hair to keep his hands out of his clothes. God, just kissing that boy made him so achingly hard and he had to leave him every time all too soon, with an excuse about homework or class or an experiment or anything besides staying. He wasn't fooling John, but the boy was kind enough to let him go without a fuss. John seemed to have agreed to taking things slow, even though it was clearly painful for him. Sherlock appreciated this because in all honesty, if John pushed back even a tiny bit, Sherlock would have fucked him ten ways to Sunday by now.

The next piece of data Sherlock needed to file: John adored affection. Again, something to be expected seeing as his parents provided little to none while raising him, but seeing it first hand was fascinating. One night, Sherlock walked him home and reached out impulsively for John's hand. John gripped his fingers so tightly; Sherlock could no longer feel them. Sherlock hadn't mentioned it and walked back to his flat massaging his hand and grinning. Even a simple brush of the shoulder, John pushed into the contact like a loving puppy, snuggling in anywhere he could. The boy was starving for touch. Sherlock couldn't let himself think about that too in-depth. If he did, his thoughts would turn into twelve different ways of murdering the Watson parents for almost fucking up an incredible man for life. And that simply couldn't be done. So he focused on John and how he could take care of him. Sherlock had been surprised by how much he enjoyed these little things about John. He didn't mind adding a bit of pressure to every accidental brush of bodies, and found himself actively finding reasons to touch John, whether it be a hand on his lower back or a pat on his shoulder. John clearly craved it and Sherlock was more than happy to provide it.

And finally, the last new piece of data he'd obtained he actually didn't want to file. He wanted to keep it, hang it up in a frame where he could go back and look at it every other minute of the day and smile at it: John liked The Work. He found Sherlock's detective work fascinating, even if he wasn't quite allowed to go into the crime scene the first and only time he'd gone on a case, he'd had so many bloody questions afterward. It had been fantastic.

After their moment up against the door of Sherlock's flat, John had cleaned up in the loo then snuggled up onto the couch, looking thoroughly debauched, blue eyes practically gleaming with satisfaction. Sherlock had made tea, doing his best not to look so smug but every time he looked at John, he grinned, quite pleased with himself for being the one to make John look like that.

But as he'd dropped down on to the couch next to John, he had had to stifle the laugh that threaten to fall over his lips at John's suddenly horrified look, obviously realizing his mistake.

"Oh shit, Sherlock," John had begun, wide-eyed, "I didn't even...I mean you-do you want me to-"

Sherlock had waved his hand and smiled reassuringly. John's kind heart had wanted to return the favour and the heat in his cheeks announced how embarrassed he was that he hadn't even thought of that until long after it was relevant. "Don't worry about me, John. That was just for you." He winked, simultaneously attempting to emphasize that he meant it and he wouldn't be asking for anything like that until John was ready.

John's cheeks darkened even further, dropping his gaze to the floor. Sherlock tried not to let his heart fall, already missing John's post-orgasm afterglow. He cleared his throat.

"So do you want to ask about my meddling, overbearing brother or my interaction with Sergeant Lestrade first?"

John snapped his head up and grinned, grateful for the subject change. A sign of deliberation passed over his face then announced, "Police stuff first. What the hell was that? How do you know that guy? And why were you allowed to go into a crime scene?" Sherlock noted the purposeful side-step of the subject of Mycroft.

Sherlock had suddenly felt self-conscious. He was fully aware that his 'little hobby', as his brother so lovingly put it, was not exactly a normal thing for a nineteen-year-old to be doing. Of course, the way he'd gotten in to all this wasn't normal either.

"Um," Sherlock had started, feeling oddly unsure of himself, something he didn't experience often. "Well, you know about my deductions-"

"The thing where you know everything about everyone? Sure." John nodded, then flashed him a cheeky smile.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "_Anyway_," he emphasized and John laughed. "The deductions…they can be very useful for the police when they're stalled on a case. I'm able to lend my assistance when they request it."

John looked dubiously at him. "Really," he said flatly. "You started helping out just like that? And the police were fine with that? Letting some young gun do their work for them?"

Sherlock gave him a sly smile. "I may have…persuaded them."

John smiled back. "Yeah, I kind of figured that. I've seen you teach, I've seen you rebuff advances," he waved a hand at himself, "and I saw how you were with that Sergeant. I can't imagine it was easy to get in with them, but if anyone could do it, it's probably you."

"I wouldn't say I'm 'in' so much as I'm useful. Lestrade is the only one that will work with me. He sends me information when he needs help. If it's particularly interesting, I show up. Occasionally unannounced. You wouldn't believe how many morons work for the police force."

"What types of cases do you work on?" John inquired.

Sherlock shrugged. "Anything he sends me. Right now it's mostly robberies and break-ins, things of that sort. Tedious, but Lestrade is the only one that trusts me at the moment to not botch things up. He's also using me to further his career."

John's face fell. "That's terrible."

Sherlock cocked his head. "Why? If you have a resource, why not use it?"

"Because it's not right. Do you get credit for any of the work you do?"

Sherlock shrugged. He'd truly never thought about getting credit. It wasn't for anyone else. It was for him. To keep his mind from imploding. Whoever else his work benefitted was never at the forefront of his mind.

"You should get credit. It's amazing what you do. You can do the police's job better then them. Why don't you become a full-on detective? Why are you even doing your chemistry degree?"

Sherlock was grinning. John's curiosity was endearing. "I like Chemistry. I find chemical reactions to be fascinating. Less so in a stricked school setting but I think it'll further my career in the long-run. And no, my long-term goal is not to become a certified detective. I have no interest in being bind to the law. I plan to continue to be more of a consultant."

"A consultant and an uncertified detective," John mused. "So… a consulting detective?"

Sherlock grinned. "Best and only one in the world. I invented the job."

John cocked his head and pursed his lips, mirth evident in his eyes. "Ah, right. Naturally, you invented your own career. How could I have been so silly to believe you would conform to a standard job?"

"Assuming again, John," Sherlock laughed.

John laughed too as he readjusted himself on the couch, gripping his tea mug. "Okay, so the, uh, deduction thing. How did that all come about, then? Where did you learn to do that?"

"Well," Sherlock began, trying to decide where to start with that one. He'd never actually sat down and thought about it. He just knew it was what he did. "I was a very curious child, I suppose. Always wanting... well _needing_, really, more information on everything. Simple things fascinated me when I was small, like how the microwave heated food or how the toaster knew exactly when the bread would be the perfect golden brown. Stupid, really, but you may forgive me for my underdeveloped brain at the time."

John giggled. "How old were you when you started wanting answers to those questions?"

"Three," Sherlock shrugged and John choked on his tea.

"Three?! Christ, of course a three-year-old Sherlock Holmes was wondering about the inner-workings of a bloody microwave."

Sherlock had furrowed his brow. "Is that unusual? What were you thinking about at age three?"

"I have no idea," John had started laughing, grinning happily at Sherlock. "God, you're incredible."

Sherlock had tried not to blush. No one, besides his parents, had praised him like that. Responses to his skills and odd eccentricities varied from 'piss off' to 'fuck off' to 'fuck you' to a plethora of others.

"So you were a curious child," John had prompted and Sherlock continued.

"Right. As I got older, and practiced my observation skills, 'honing them in' as my father put it, I thought it would satisfy my curiosity to know. To be able to know almost everything just by a cursory glance at anyone or anything. But it only fueled it. Now that I knew I could find answers, I became more inquisitive. The experiments started then." Sherlock deliberately left it at that. John had seen his microscope and petri dishes scattered around his flat. He was fully aware of what experiments Sherlock was speaking of. Of course, those weren't the only things he'd experimented with but he left that alone for now.

John had sensed something was being held back. Being the brilliant future-doctor that he was, he didn't push it and Sherlock was grateful. He'd decided at the start of this with John that he would carefully drop only one bomb at a time about himself. He forced down the panic that welled up within him, knowing all the things he'd have to reveal. Like he'd told John, they would cross those bridges when they got to them. He had a bad feeling Mycroft had given John one solid shove toward one of them already. Sherlock would be prepared when he asked.

But he hadn't yet. They went on, discussing Sherlock's abilities and police work. By the end, John was edging closer on the couch and trying to subtly hint that he would like to tag along on more cases if Sherlock would have him. The thought of John being involved in this part of his life had been a very bizarre turn-on.

And just like that, John was underneath him, splayed out on the couch, pulling Sherlock by the hips into his body, reaching for kisses and practically purring as Sherlock settled his weight on top of him. When John's hands crept up and hooked inside Sherlock's belt, he subtly pulled back, placing soothing kisses on John's cheek so as not to seem as though he was rejecting him outright. John sighed with dissatisfaction but let him go, struggling to sit up in a dignified way. They'd stared at each other, both red-faced, wet lipped and panting, and then John gathered himself and threw Sherlock a weak smile, making an excuse about needing to get home.

Sherlock had walked him to the door, locked it behind him, then promptly stripped off his clothing, and practically dove into the shower, wrapping his hand around his cock and stroking vigorously, still feeling John's hands on his hips and soft whimpers against his lips. He moaned out loud, wishing more than anything he were inside John's body and not his own fist. A ripple of pleasure tore through him as he considered the possibility that John was on his way home right at this very moment to do the exact thing Sherlock was in the middle of. The thought of John touching himself while thinking of Sherlock made his cock spasm and he came, picturing John laying on his bed with his hand down his pants, whimpering Sherlock's name.

Sherlock had slumped against the shower wall, realizing that if John was affecting him this much already from a simple snog, who the hell would he become when they started actually having sex?

Sherlock had stretched his back and rolled his shoulders, forcing himself to think about bees and not the blonde-haired boy who was currently throwing his sex-drive into high gear as he climbed out of the shower and redressed.

The days that followed were perfectly coordinated. They met up for meals, in-between classes and walked each other home. But neither one of them asked the other one in and no one pushed the issue. They couldn't be alone in a flat together. If they had, the plan of going slow would have essentially been taken out back and been shot. No, slow was good. Slow was necessary.

It didn't stop the overflow of data trickling in to Sherlock's brain and for that, he was grateful.

* * *

><p>He was going to talk to him. He really was. He was going to sit him down, look him in the eye and ask him for the truth. He was going to get everything out into the open. Sherlock had promised to share and John was going to take him up on that offer. He had questions. So many questions he was going to have to write them all down.<p>

And he'd asked some. The detective stuff was amazing. And a small glimpse into Sherlock's childhood as a boy-genius was wonderful. But John knew better then to think they'd even scratched the surface of all the topics they'd need to cover. He'd have to ask. He'd have to tough it out and hear the truth.

But after that mind-blowing orgasm? His first and only one by the hands of another? No, he didn't want to ask questions like that. He didn't want to already begin the journey down the rabbit hole before this even truly began and gloss over the honeymoon period entirely. No, he wanted to remember that moment. The incredible, unreal moment of someone touching him like that for the first time. And not just anyone. By Sherlock. By Sherlock bloody Holmes with his smooth, talented hands, playing him like a fiddle and making him come so easily. Even the memory of it made him shudder and suddenly he was so glad to have waited all this time. The most gorgeous man he'd ever met would be teaching him, showing him, guiding him and exploring him and John was buzzing with anticipation. He would wait of course. He could do that. Because somehow, Sherlock's words range more then true: Waiting would be worth it. But that didn't keep John from daydreaming about the next time he could get underneath Sherlock Holmes. Yes, questions and the truth could wait.

"Seriously? Is this how it's going to be now?"

John jumped in his chair, fear coursing through him as Mike's voice brought him back to reality, the sounds of the pub flooding back into his ears. He shook his head. "Sorry?"

Link laughed. "Oh mate, you've got it bad, don't ya?"

Mike rolled his eyes. "Great. You know, just because you're officially dating doesn't give you the right to zone out every time you're with us."

Link nodded in agreement. "Too true. Where is the lunatic tonight anyway?"

John shrugged. "Dunno."

Mike glared at him. "You don't know where your man is at? Oh, Johnny, you gotta keep track of him. If you want to keep him-"

"Shut up," John snapped angrily. How could his best friend be such a jerk about the guy he was so-

Mike burst out laughing, cutting off his thoughts. "I'm kidding, John, relax. Look, I've seen the way he looks at you, it's fucking repulsively adoring and it makes me want to vomit. I'm sure you have nothing to worry about." His face darkened slightly. "But like I always say," he tried to say off-handedly. "Be careful."

John could appreciate where he was coming from, but wished Mike would lay off a bit. "Whatever," he mumbled. He understood his best friend's impulse to protect him but it still bothered him. He didn't need to be babysat.

"Just looking out for you, Johnny. I'm sure all is well," Mike said half-heartedly.

"Besides," Link chimed in. "I actually do know where Sherlock is tonight."

John snapped his attention to Link. "You do?"

Link smirked and raised his eyebrows. "Oh yes."

"Where-"

A gentle hand was laid on his shoulder and soft lips were pressed to his temple. "Good evening, John," a low baritone rumbled in his ear and John grinned, looking up.

"Hi," he murmured, as Sherlock slid into the open chair next to him. "What are you doing here?"

"Solved the case," he said with a triumphant grin and John's heart sank just a bit.

"Oh. Were you helping the police again?"

Sherlock nodded, and John tried to hide his disappointment. Why wasn't he invited to go again? Shouldn't he be going to all the cases? They'd talked about this.

"You were in class, John," Sherlock answered his thoughts like always. "I'm not going to take you out of school for cases. But when you don't have any obligations, I will always make sure to gather you. Deal?"

John's body warmed all over and he nodded. "Deal."

"Oi!" Two shrill voices hollered at them from across the table and Sherlock turned, eyebrow raised to look between Link and Mike.

"You guys are no longer invited to nights out if you act like this the whole time. There are two other people here," Mike said in annoyance.

"Seriously. And how did you even know we were here?" Link demanded.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "I should think that were obvious. You always come here on Wednesdays."

Link shook his head and pointed a finger at John without looking away from Sherlock. "No way. You always know where he is."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You three are incredibly predictable; it's not that difficult to figure out your patterns."

Mike scoffed. "Oh right, I almost forgot what a pretentious prick you are."

"It's not hard to forget when he reminds you constantly," Link said, taking a sip of his drink and glaring at Sherlock. "I thought I'd gotten out of having to see you since you quit our class like a coward."

"And I thought John would have more intelligent friends, so clearly we were both wrong," Sherlock replied calmly.

"Yeah, sorry we don't have genius level brains," Mike bit back.

"It's not your level of intelligence that gets to me, it's what you choose to fill your heads with. I apologize for not using the space in my mind for useless knowledge of Doctor Who episodes."

"I happen to enjoy Doctor Who, thank you very much!" Link spat back. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

"Someone far beyond you in most areas, Mr. Jones," Sherlock answered coolly.

"Jesus Christ, stop it, all of you!" John bellowed, finally finding his voice after watching his friends volley insults back and forth at each other across the table. "What is wrong with all of you?" He turned to Sherlock first. "Christ, Sherlock, these are my friends. You can't say shit like that to them. I know you think everyone is an idiot but please don't treat them like that."

He turned back to his two friends. "And you lot need to be fucking nice. What is the matter with the two of you? I thought you'd at least be- what?" He stopped short and narrowed his eyes as he watched Link's face turn redder and redder until he burst into laughter, Mike falling close behind him.

What was more shocking was Sherlock was also joining them, shoulders shaking as he bowed his head and chuckled.

John glanced back and forth for several seconds, staring at his mad friends. "What the fuck is happening?"

Sherlock peaked up at him from under dark lashes, still laughing. He held up his hands in defense at John's incredulous look. "I take zero responsibility, it was their idea."

"Woah tattle tail!" Mike howled, rocking back in his chair.

"Yeah, what the hell, Holmes, we were in this together!" Link crowed, slapping Mike on the back to steady himself as he tried to control his laughter.

John's eyes widened. "You had a deal?"

Sherlock was grinning. "You have a pair of very good friends here, John."

"I do?"

"Hey!" Mike and Link said together, trying to sound indignant and failing as they both continued to giggle.

John glared. "Can someone please explain?"

Mike recovered first, still grinning. "Well," he said, clasping his hands over the table. "You see, my dear John, I felt that, being your best friend and all, I needed to have a few choice words with Mr. Holmes here after you told me you were dating. So I decided I'd pop by his office hours."

"I was the muscle for the operation," Link chimed in. "Just in case things got…out of hand."

John's eyes widened. "You were going to fight him?"

Sherlock actually laughed. "I certainly hope not." He glanced at Mike. "For your own sakes."

"What! I could have taken you," Link said proudly. "I've got a wicked one-two punch."

Sherlock was obviously amused by this but refrained from commenting. John gaped at the three of them, still feeling entirely lost. "Okay…so you went to his office…" John tried to move the conversation along.

Mike nodded theatrically and waved his arms as he spoke, punctuating every word like he'd just been to war. "Oh yes, we did. We stormed in there, made some very serious threats, explained we would be back if he ever hurt you again, demanded he be a good man for you!"

"It was quite Shakespearian," Link said nodding towards Mike's dramatics.

Sherlock snorted.

"And then, at the end, when we laid down our rules for dating John Watson, we turned to leave. But something…something pulled us back." Mike dropped his voice as though in awe. "Something was there… something….something I can't quite describe."

"It was like words from God," Link said looking off into the distance as though very moved. "And you can never ignore God, John."

"And we were compelled by the higher power to turn back as we heard those words…" Mike faded out and Sherlock threw his head back and laughed a loud belly laugh.

"You both just compared me to God and I am awfully flattered."

John still had no idea what to make of any of this.

Sherlock caught on. "I asked them if they wanted to grab a drink with me."

John stared at him. "You…really?"

Sherlock nodded. John gaped at him, trying to picture Sherlock asking anyone to go for drinks.

"And this guy is actually mildly fun," Link said, tossing a thumb at Sherlock. "We're going to have to take him out with us next time."

"Anyway, we got to talking, turns out he isn't a right bastard, and then we came up with this delightful little wind up," Mike concluded, obviously pleased with the execution of their plan.

John processed that for a long moment and felt a smile tug at his lips as he turned to the man next to him. "Sherlock Holmes, you were a part of a joke."

A hint of pink tinted Sherlock's cheeks and he shrugged again. John giggled, appreciating the sight of a somewhat embarrassed Sherlock. The man exuded sex but somewhere in there was also a sweet, gentle boy who could be positively darling. He grasped Sherlock's hand under the table and beamed at him.

"Okay, but really," Mike was saying. "How do you always know where we are? John says you do some weird voodoo thing where you know everything."

"I did not!" John said, horrified.

Mike rolled his eyes and looked back to Sherlock. "So? Go on then. Tell us."

"Well," Sherlock said hesitantly. "I already explained tonight. You all come here every Wednesday."

"Okay, but what about those texts you sent me last week? How you basically knew my every move?" John inquired. He really did want to know. The messages from last week were still a mystery. Did he in fact have cameras all over campus?

Sherlock glanced at all three of them, then leaned back exactly as he had on the first night John had met him, settling in as though he would be there for a long while. He glanced once more at John for confirmation to in fact go on and when John nodded, Sherlock began.

"Monday was obvious. You never run in the mornings on Monday, thinking you may sleep in just in case you didn't get enough rest over the weekend. You always look a little less awake Monday mornings, and a little more uncomfortable, like you had too much energy. Your body is used to the endorphin rush in the AM so it feels out of sorts on Mondays. I know you're a runner and I know what time you get off class, so it's only logical that you would run in the afternoon, before dinner but after classes are done. You had an exam Wednesday, one that I scheduled, so Tuesday night was for studying and you like the library because there are less distractions. Wednesday was just a tease, I have no idea what color you were wearing but I knew you'd be walking between classes right at that time and wonder if I saw you or not. You go out to lunch once a week and you wanted to indulge a bit since you finished your exam the day before and believe it went well. It did, by the way. You like to celebrate small victories and that normally includes food, such as when you brought breakfast to my flat a few weeks back. You were celebrating the fact that you were becoming a part of my life. The coffees you brought to my office hours were mini-celebrations for getting to spend time with me. You've come to my office with still somewhat greasy and salty fingers and lips, and faint ketchup stains on your shirt often. Ergo: fries. Friday was obvious; I used to teach your class. And did you really think I missed you snapping your pens between your teeth while you stared at me? Simple."

The three boys sat and stared at Sherlock as though they'd never seen him before, mouths agape. He furrowed his brow and glanced at John in bewilderment. "Not good?"

Link was the one to break the silence with a loud whoop. "Wow! That was... that was so fucking weird and kind of creepy and kind of awesome. You're an odd one Holmes, but I think I kind of like ya."

That eased the tension immediately as Mike bobbed his head in agreement. "Seriously, what the hell is that? How do you do that? Can you do that with anything? Or anyone? Or is it just John since you're all gah gah over him?"

The questions didn't stop, and to John's shock and delight, Sherlock answered every single one. At one point, he went over each boy's family history, at their request, and what brought them to London. Both of them cheered at the accuracy and John found himself beaming at Sherlock like a schoolboy. He felt an odd sense of pride that he'd snagged this incredible person as his. Now all he had to do was keep him interested.

"Okay, so these... what are they called? Deductions? Yeah, okay, deductions. Are they just natural?" Mike was asking now.

Sherlock shrugged. "I suppose so."

"So you just...observe people? Constantly?" Mike said, shaking his head in awe.

"And he's a detective," John added proudly. Sherlock tossed him a sharp look, and John furrowed his brow. "What? Isn't that true?"

"You're a detective?!" Link all but shrieked. "Do you look for clues with a magnifying glass and have a badge and stuff?"

Sherlock snorted, trying to seem like he was enjoying himself but John could see him fidgeting under the table. "I don't have a badge but yes, on occasion I use a small hand lens when necessary."

Link's eyes were wide but he nodded, obviously impressed. "Jesus, Holmes. And hear I thought you were just a prick of a Chem TA, trying to get all the under classmen to fail out! Turns out you're an interesting guy. Who knew?"

_I knew_, John thought silently, still grinning.

* * *

><p>Two hours later, John had Sherlock pressed against the wall outside of the pub.<p>

"God, you were brilliant in there. Brilliant," John was murmuring between kisses.

"Aren't I supposed to be nice to your friends? Isn't that what people in relationships do?" Sherlock asked as John latched on to his neck.

John giggled. "Is that what we are? In a relationship?"

He felt Sherlock's body tense. "I-I didn't mean...I mean I know you're still deciding..."

John pulled back, still grinning. "I'm teasing you Sherlock. Relax. I know where we stand. And yes, a relationship is exactly what we're heading for so don't you worry."

Sherlock's lips twitched even as he tried to let out an irritated sigh. "I'm not worried," he said, attempting to sound indignant.

John laughed. "Come on, you," he said, nudging him with his shoulder as they turned toward the street. Link and Mike had long since taken off, saying they wanted to give John 'alone time' with Sherlock. Tossers.

"Was it…was it okay then?" Sherlock asked hesitantly. "With your friends?"

John grinned. "It was perfect."

They walked in silence for a moment. And then John stopped dead in his tracks.

"Wait a minute," he said, turning on Sherlock. "Wait just a damn minute. Why were you nice to them right off the bat? It took you months to warm up to me and I was being nice to you! They drop in your office unannounced, act like a couple of arseholes and you go get drinks with them? They didn't even have to work for it!"

Sherlock seemed genuinely shocked by the outburst, then pinched his lips together, trying not to laugh. John glared at him. "Prat," he muttered and Sherlock let the laugh fall from his mouth. They continued to walk, a comfortable silence falling over them.

"So you, ah, like them then? My friends?"

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. "Surprisingly, I did enjoy myself, yes. I don't... no one has ever taken interest in my work before you," Sherlock was seemingly lost in his own thoughts. "It was odd to be able to add two more people to that list tonight, when there hadn't even been a list at all until last week."

"Well," John said, lacing his fingers in Sherlock's. "Maybe you've just been meeting the wrong people." He grinned and Sherlock nodded.

"Maybe so."

"What do people normally say when they see what you can do?"

"Depends on the context. Some version of 'piss off' is usually implied," Sherlock said this so nonchalantly, like it happened on a regular basis and John felt a small piece of his heart break.

"People say that about your amazing gift?" He murmured sadly. Sherlock tossed him a look.

"John, it's fine. No need to feel sorry for me. I'm an adult. It no longer affects me. In fact, the less I worry about what other people think, the better I am at what I do."

John thought about that for a long moment. "Is that why you've never had a relationship like this?"

Sherlock nodded. "That and I never saw the appeal. Until now," he added, noticing John twitching a little beside him. "Now, I can see the appeal very much."

John grinned. "Good." The nagging feeling in him was tugging roughly and he rolled the words around in his mouth until all he could get out was "But the...the other stuff..." He immediately regretted it. _There goes the honeymoon period_, he mused.

"The casual sex?" Sherlock asked bluntly and John felt the color drain from his face. He didn't know if he wanted to know. He hated the thought of anyone else touching Sherlock, but it felt important. It felt like something they should talk about. He nodded for Sherlock to continue.

He shrugged. "Data and curiosity is the best way to put it. Like I said, I'd never saw any interest in personal relationships, but sex was another matter. I wanted to...know. I dislike not knowing things and I felt I'd never understand it if I didn't attempt it myself."

"So it was like an experiment? Like the ones in your apartment?"

"I suppose it was, yes."

"And how long have you been experimenting?"

"Two years."

John could only nod, trying not to swallow loudly. He was trying to remain neutral, an unassuming party listening and remaining impartial but it was almost impossible. It made him feel sick. What if Sherlock wanted to keep experimenting? Was Sherlock going to-

"I'm not sleeping with anyone else, John," Sherlock said, squeezing his hand. "I don't want to. I'd like to...remain exclusive with you." He blushed as the words left his mouth. "Of course, I know you're still deciding about me," he said in a rush, "and there are still things you need to know so if you want to date other people in the meantime, I won't hold-"

"I don't," John said hurriedly. "I don't want anyone else."

The blush in Sherlock's cheeks darkened a bit as he bit as his lip, obviously trying not to grin. "Okay good, that's...that's good."

John giggled and tucked himself in to Sherlock's side. Sherlock wrapped an arm around his shoulder as they kept walking.

John knew he needed to ask further questions, get it all out, bring up everything Mycroft had told him. But he couldn't do it. Not now. For the first time, John agreed on Sherlock's ideas about taking things slow. Let everything come out, not push it.

It wasn't that he thought it would ruin anything. He didn't. They both had a past, of different sorts but still uncomfortable to have to talk about all the same. This night had been too pleasant to want to ruin it.

"Well, this is me," John said as they approached his front door.

"I had a wonderful evening with you tonight, John."

John's cheeks felt hot. "Me too," he murmured, as Sherlock ducked down to place soft lips over his.

This is how it always started. One of them would attempt to give the other a chaste kiss, just a parting goodbye gesture, nothing more. But instead, they'd end up tangled in each other, grasping and clutching to one another, heat pooling between them, want palpable in the air. Their tongues battled, bodies touched and rolled, clothing wrinkled under sweaty fingers, and soon enough one of them, usually Sherlock, was pulling back, gasping for breath.

Tonight was no different as John growled low in his throat, feeling Sherlock's hands press gently on his shoulders and move him a safe distance away.

"I'll see you tomorrow for lunch?" Sherlock murmured breathlessly.

John batted down the swoop of disappointment in the kiss ending but nodded all the same. "Of course."

Sherlock nodded, clearly trying to gather himself together. "Good night John."

"Goodnight." John did his best not to sound hurt. He turned toward his door and fumbled with his keys, needing to be in the shower with his hand on his cock immediately.

"Oh, John?" Sherlock spoke from behind him and John turned to look at him again.

Sherlock was staring at the door, pursing his lips so hard they were turning white. John frowned. "You alright?"

A small laugh trickled over his lips, but Sherlock was able to regain his composure. "Perfectly fine. You may want to knock before you go in."

And with that, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the night.

John glared after him. What the hell did that mean? This was his house. Why would he knock on his own door? John stood on the doorstep for a moment longer before scraping his key into the lock, deciding to ignore Sherlock's cryptic statement. Bloody lunatic, probably just wanted to make him wait a moment longer to suffer with the raging hard-on he had from that stupid snog. Bastard.

He pressed the door open and heard a loud thump, a groan and a shush as he flicked on the lights. His furrowed his brow as his eyes adjusted to find a very red-faced Mike staring at him from the couch, laying on his stomach and just securing a blanket around his waist, his upper half completely bare. On the floor next to him, Link was sprawled out as though he'd just fallen, the coffee table obscuring his whole body except his arms thrown under his head, which was just turning, wide-eyed to look at John.

John froze and the three of them stared at each other for a long moment.

Then Link grinned. "Hi John."

John glanced back and forth between the boy on the couch and the one on the floor, doing his very best to piece together what he was witnessing. Mike looked like a deer in headlights, mouth hanging open, clutching the blanket awkwardly behind him, eyes panicked. Link, on the other hand, seemed perfectly at ease, smiling winningly at John and wiping sweat from his forehead.

And all at once, it sunk in and John slapped a hand to his forehead. "Oh my god," he groaned. "Even you two are shagging now?"

Mike seemed to snap out of his haze and crinkled his forehead. "What do you mean, 'even us'? You're not fucking Sherlock yet? What are you waiting for? You've been wa-"

"Shut up," John snapped, "This is not about me right now. When? When in God's name did you two start doing..." he waved his hand between the two of them. "_this_," he said disdainfully.

Link, still grinning, sat up and leaned back against the couch, his naked torso now in plain view. "Uhh... for a bit."

"A bit?!" John demanded. "What happened to you two 'not being gay'?"

"I'm not gay," Mike said defensively.

"Bisexual," Link said, pointing his finger at John and grinning.

"Oh my god," John said again.

"What? It's not like you didn't know," Mike muttered.

"True. We both informed you a long time ago," Link said, nodding in agreement.

"You didn't tell me you were doing _this_ though. And why on the couch? Why not in your fucking room, Mike? That's what it's there for!" John was practically yelling.

Mike was glaring at him. "We didn't think you'd be home for a while! Why would us shagging be any of your business? And why are you mad?"

"I'm not mad!" John bellowed back.

"Then what-" Mike started shouting, when Link placed his hand on his arm.

"Babe, I think Johnny here is a bit put off that we've been doing the dirty and he's getting nothing from Sherlock."

"Oh gross, please for the love of God, don't refer to each other as 'babe.' This is disgusting enough as it is," John said, rolling his eyes.

"John," Link said, still with a hint of humor in his tone. "Why don't you call up your precious Sherlock and tell him you need to be fucked immediately before you murder your two friends out of raging horniness? I'd prefer not to die before I even get to come tonight."

John threw his head back and let out a growl, squeezing his eyes shut in frustration. How in the hell was he the only one on this Godforsaken earth that wasn't getting any action and his two best friends had been fucking each other's brains out? How was that even fair?

It wasn't. It was bullshit.

He ignored his friends snickering as he stalked to his room and whipped out his phone.

**You fucking knew, didn't you? -JW**

**I have no idea what you're talking about. –SH**

John glared down at his mobile.

**You're a bad liar. -JW**

**Just think; you were almost Link only a few short months ago. -SH**

**Not funny. Next time I see you, I'm going to kill you. -JW**

**No you won't. You like kissing me too much. –SH**

Kissing. Fuck kissing. He didn't want to bloody kiss anymore.

Okay, maybe that wasn't true. He wanted to kiss. But he also wanted to do _more_ then kiss.

He let out another frustrated groan, then simply wrote back:

**Prat. –JW**

John laid down on his bed and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. He was losing it. He was going to go insane before he got to know what it was like to shag Sherlock. He knew it. He needed a distraction. Something to make him forget how very close and very far away he was to being in bed with the curly haired genius. He debated masturbating for what felt like the millionth time that week when his phone vibrated again. He glanced at it.

**Lestrade just called. Pick you up in 10? –SH**

John let a wide smile take over his face as he responded.

**Oh God, yes. –JW**

****I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it. You all are my favorite people on this earth. I cannot thank you enough for the feedback and follows and favorites. You're all wonderful and I continue to write for you. Cheers!****


	13. Chapter 13

****I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it. Warning: I'm no longer giving you warnings unless something out of nowhere is going to happen. Expect smut. Constantly. ;)********

"I'm not talking to you," John said as he slid into the taxi.

Sherlock furrowed his brow, not looking up from his mobile. "Didn't you just though?"

"Only to tell you I'm not talking to you."

"Isn't that a bit, what does one say... 'primary school' behavior?"

"Not if it's for a good reason."

"You just spoke again. Really John, if you are going to make such announcements, you should abide by your own rules."

John's lips twitched and he looked out the window, refusing to laugh.

"So where are we going?"

He turned to catch Sherlock's smug grin. "Talking again?"

"Oh, stop it. You didn't tell me my two best friends were shagging, Sherlock! I had a right to know."

"I didn't think it was my place," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

"And when has that ever stopped you?" John glared.

Sherlock's eyes flickered to him for a moment then back to the phone. "Fair point."

"You just wanted to see me squirm."

"Well, actually I just wanted to see what you would do. I did not know you would, as you put it, 'squirm.' I'm actually quite enjoying your reaction."

John gaped at him. "What? Why?"

"You're jealous. Not of the two of them sleeping together, but because they are having sex and you are not. And you want to have sex. With me. And it may be poor form to admit this, but I like that you want me."

John rolled his eyes. "Yeah, great deduction, that. Was it the constant hard-on or the grabby snogs that gave me away?"

Sherlock looked up sharply, seemingly startled. "What?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Sherlock. You are well-aware that I want you. Don't pretend like its some major revelation."

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, obviously contemplating something as he brow furrowed. John waited.

"John," he finally spoke slowly, "please tell me you know that I want you as well. As equally as badly. I may have more experience but that doesn't change what you do to me every time we're in each other's company." He paused for a moment in thought and then said, "Actually, you don't even have to be near me. You consume my thoughts on a regular basis, John Watson. In every way you can imagine. In my dreams, while I'm working, while I'm on a bloody case. You are on my mind constantly. Please tell me you knew that."

If he hadn't gotten used to this feeling by now, John would have sworn the temperature in the cab had risen ten degrees. He rubbed a sweaty palm down his thigh, trying to calm his body down. It was entirely unfair that Sherlock could say such simple things to him and have them fall out of his mouth in the most sensual way possible. Fuck, the things it did to John. Why weren't they sleeping together again? John swallowed, doing his best to sooth his suddenly dry throat.

"The only reason we aren't progressing sexually in our relationship quite yet is because you haven't decided that you are ready. And no, I don't think you should tell me you're ready while we're in the middle of grinding against each other while snogging outside your flat. I want you to have a clear mind, and make an intelligent, non-lust induced decision. It's not a heat of the moment type of choice, John. Like I told you before; this is important."

And now he was being kind. God, he was fucking perfect. So perfect. John tried to let out a sigh, but it was only half-hearted. "Alright," he murmured. Before properly thinking it over, John slid his palm across the space between then and slipped his hand into Sherlock's gloved one. Without hesitation, Sherlock laced their fingers and settled their joined hands on his lap. John grinned.

"So, can I go into the crime scene this time?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Not my decision. Lestrade makes the rules."

John smirked. "And when do you ever follow the rules?"

Sherlock flashed him a mischievous grin topped with a raised eyebrow but said nothing. John laughed.

They pulled up in front of a tall, white building, police tape already plastered across the scene, blue and red lights lighting up the dark street. John untangled his hand from Sherlock's as he went to open the door.

Lestrade was on them immediately as they exited the car. "We thought suicide, no signs of a struggle, but there are missing valuables," he said by way of greeting. "May have been a robbery gone bad but all the windows are clean and the lock wasn't picked."

Sherlock frowned, although his eyes were twinkling with excitement. "You're not a part of homicide. Why are you on this case?"

Lestrade grinned. "The Homicide Division is completely stumped. They're giving me a shot at this. Seeing if a younger office can find something they couldn't."

Sherlock smirked. "Ah. And I'm your secret weapon, I presume?"

Lestrade grinned wider. "Right you are. Come on. Body has been moved, sent to St. Barts. We can go there next, but first, take a look at the scene."

Sherlock started toward the door, then paused and glanced at John as though just remembering he were there. "Oh," he murmured. "Right." John did his best not to glare at his companion as Sherlock turned back to Lestrade. "I need John to come in as well."

Lestrade stopped and turned, already tilting his head in discouragement. "Sherlock..." he warned. "I'm already breaking rules having you in there. I can't allow everyone you bring in as well."

John shuffled his feet, feeling like a stupid child.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "'All the people,'" he mimicked bitterly. "Like I bring everyone I meet to crime scenes."

Lestrade crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, making it clear he wouldn't be changing his mind.

Sherlock nodded. "Alright then. We'll be off. Good luck with this. Hopefully you can catch the killer before they strike again." He turned, placed a hand on John's back and began herding them back to the curb.

"Sherlock, it's fine," John tried to protest, feeling his cheeks burning. "He needs your help. I can stay out-"

"Shut up, John. Just wait," Sherlock murmured, walking briskly with John in tow.

And then, they heard a call from behind them.

"Alright!" Lestrade called and Sherlock smirked, turning back smugly. The Sergeant ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Alright. Alright, fine. Come on then." He glanced between Sherlock and John. "Both of you."

John grinned and shoved his hands in his pockets. "I promise not to touch anything," he said as they hurried up the steps of the building and inside the front door. The Sergeant rolled his eyes.

"Body is moved so hopefully you won't be too traumatized, but there is some blood," he said to John as Sherlock was already half way up the stairs to the second floor.

John nodded. "I'm planning on being a doctor, so this will be a good test to see how well I'll be able to stomach a bit of blood."

The Sergeant raised an eyebrow. "A doctor, huh?"

John nodded. "Just started my first year of my pre-med courses."

Lestrade nodded thoughtfully, seeming impressed. Then his attention snapped back sharply to John as though he just remembered something. "Actually, I'm glad you're here." He paused at the bottom of the stairs Sherlock had already ascended.

John stopped as well. "Oh yeah?"

Lestrade nodded and ran a hand down the back of his neck. "Yeah. Listen, I wanted to apologize for last time. With Mycroft. He's... it's a delicate relationship they have, the Holmes' brothers. He just wanted to make sure all was right."

John snorted. "No, unfortunately, I don't think that was what it was about at all, but I can appreciate where you were coming from. It's no problem. I survived it in one piece, right? No harm done."

Lestrade was frowning. "John...There are things with Sherlock that are-"

"I know," John said, cutting him off. "No need to explain."

"He told you then?"

"No," John sighed, "I had the pleasure of finding out from Mycroft."

Lestrade's eyes widened. "Oh shite. Sherlock must have flipped."

"Sherlock doesn't know that I know." John narrowed his eyes. "And I prefer to keep it that way."

Lestrade, to John's surprise, chuckled. "Good luck with that, kid. Sherlock is very difficult to keep things from."

John shrugged. "I can try at least."

"I'm surprised it didn't scare you off."

John frowned. "Why would it? It's in the past. We all have stuff in our pasts, don't we?"

Lestrade eyed him as if taking in what he said, then knitted his eyebrows. "Can I ask why you come to this stuff with him? I mean, the detective stuff. It's a bit...odd for kids your age, isn't it?"

John looked down at the ground. "Honestly, it's a bit fascinating." He smiled at his shoes. "Sherlock himself is fascinating. And, well. This stuff. It's important to him." He nodded at Sherlock's back at the top of the stairs.

The Sergeant stared at him for a long moment and then smiled genuinely. "The Doctor and the Detective," he mused and John laughed. Lestrade jerked his head to the stairs. "Come on. I'm sure he's deduced the hell out of you by now but have you seen him do this yet?"

John cocked his head. "Do what?"

Lestrade grinned. "Oh, you'll see."

John's eyes widened and he followed the Sergeant up the steps.

He rounded the corner of the small room where several officers were filing out, grumbling and looking irritated. John reached up on his toes to look over shoulders to see a dark figure crouching in the middle of the floor, coat splayed out around him, head bent. He looked like a fucking superhero about to take off into the night, and John was lost for a moment, barely noticing the odd looks the officers were giving him as they pushed passed. Once the room cleared, he stood in the doorway with Lestrade, staring down at Sherlock's back, memorized by that strong back holding so still.

"Now what?" He murmured, afraid if he spoke too loudly, he'd break the spell.

Lestrade nodded his head toward Sherlock's hunched form. "Just watch."

John obeyed. He took a cursory glance around the room himself, shuddering slightly as he took in a large pool of blood lying ominously on the floor. Everything else looked untouched to an untrained eye, with the exception of the giant red puddle. John bit back on the unease he felt knowing someone died in this room, and turned his gaze back to the man on the floor.

Sherlock ticked his head slightly to the right, a small but sharp movement, curls falling slightly to the left side of his head. John could just make out the right side of his face, seeing the upturned corner of his mouth and even John could tell from here that Sherlock had picked up on something. He rose slowly, taking a step further into the room, gloved hands clasped behind his back as he slowly glanced across the wall of photos, stepping meticulously around the blood. He took one more sweep across the wall, then turned to the left and walked with purpose into the kitchen. Lestrade pushed off the wall to follow and John hurried to do the same.

Sherlock stood with his back to them, silent for a long moment, then turned.

"John," he said, still not looking at them but rather at the sink.

"Yeah?" John croaked, a bit shocked at being addressed after being so absorbed in watching.

"Can you tell me what you see?"

"Sherlock," Lestrade growled. "We don't have time for games."

"Not a game, Sergeant." He turned to face them. "John?" He prompted.

John's face flamed. "Uhh... I see a kitchen," he said dumbly.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in amusement. "Perfectly sound analysis but I was hoping you'd go deeper."

John rolled his eyes. "Okay, genius, what do_ you _see?"

Sherlock grinned. "Well..."

* * *

><p>Sherlock placed his elbow on the window ledge and leaned into his gloved hand, covering the stupid grin that was currently taking over his face. He couldn't miss the dazed stare from the blonde-haired boy sitting across from him, gazing at him as though he were a god, mouth hanging open just a bit as though he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. Sherlock couldn't help stealing a glance and teasing just a little.<p>

"Can I help you with something, John?"

John's mouth curved into a knowing grin and he huffed a small laugh. "I just…" he sighed, seeming to already feel silly about what he was about to say. "I can't believe that I know someone like you."

Even Sherlock knew he was preening like a bloody peacock but he couldn't help himself. Praise from this boy was the oddest form of refreshing; it calmed his crazed mind while simultaneously heating up his abdomen. He pressed his hand harder to his mouth. "Is that so?" he barely got out from under his glove.

"You're incredible," John continued. "Watching you talk about the crime scene, the things you see. It's amazing. I knew you were observant but that... that was something else."

"Mm," Sherlock replied, biting at his cheek.

"Oh stop it with the calm, unaffected act, Sherlock, you're practically glowing," John giggled.

Sherlock stole a glance at him and couldn't stifle his own laugh at John beaming radiantly at him. "Alright," he said between chuckles. "Well. Thank you," He grinned back and enjoyed this little moment they were having in the back of a taxi.

"So. St. Bart's is next?" John asked, glancing out the window to see where they were at.

"Yes. Listen, John, if you don't want to go in-"

"I don't really," John said with an embarrassed laugh. "I don't think I'm ready for dead bodies and morgues quite yet. But can I still come? I'll wait in the hall or something. If-if that's okay?" He glanced down. "I'd still like to be a part of it."

It was Sherlock's turn to beam, suddenly feeling incredibly proud that this incredible person was in _his _life. John wasn't afraid. He was honest and knew his limits. And he wasn't running. He still wanted to be involved. But in his own way. Because John was his own man. And Sherlock adored that. He nodded. "Of course."

John smiled gratefully at him and went back to looking happily out the window.

They pulled up to St. Bart's meeting a doe-eyed, dark haired young woman at the door. "Hello Sherlock," she said giddily. She didn't even glance at John. "Body is all prepared for you just as you like. My dad took care of it and let me stay to let you in."

She was staring at Sherlock, smiling nervously and rambling. He didn't miss it and he could feel John stiffen slightly next to him and move just a bit closer to his side. He wanted to laugh out loud. Half of him wanted to turn and say _Really John? _but figured John wouldn't love that, so instead he said, "Molly, good to see you. Thank you for staying late. This is John. He's been assisting me on this case. Do you mind if he waits in the hall?"

Molly still didn't look at John, just beamed up at Sherlock. "Not a problem."

Sherlock nodded and turned to John, whose face had gone impossibly red, fury radiating off of him. Sherlock waited for Molly to begin walking toward the double doors, then turned to John.

"You're kidding, right?" he murmured, allowing the amusement play across his face. John glared at him.

"What?" he spat.

"You can't really be jealous of her."

John stared at him for a moment, than seemed to shake himself out of it. "Sorry," he murmured. "Sorry, you're right. But I feel really stupid for sitting out here, being too much of a baby to go in when even_ she_ can do it. _And_ she gets to be alone with you which I don't particularly like."

Sherlock snorted. "Yes her, me and a dead body. How romantic. You are fully aware that I'm gay, correct?"

John seemed to be glaring at the doors Molly had just walked through but he nodded anyway. "Yeah, yeah, I know. But it doesn't change the fact that you're gorgeous and people flock to you. And aren't you the one that likes to experiment?"

That hurt a little but Sherlock refused to show it. Hadn't he made it clear that John was the only one he was interested now? He rolled his eyes in frustration. "Yes, John, I do enjoy experiments. However, I've already experimented with women a long time ago, and came to the conclusion that I prefer men." He took a solid step toward John, brushing his chest against John's shoulder and dropped his voice to a deep, husky tone. "Actually, I prefer one man in particular."

John sucked in a breath, shivering slightly against Sherlock's touch. Warmth bloomed in Sherlock's chest and he reached a finger under John's chin, tilting his head toward him and dropped a gentle kiss on his lips. "You have nothing to worry about you silly boy," Sherlock whispered over his lips, then disappeared through the doors after Molly, appreciating the knowledge that John was staring dumbfounded after him.

The body didn't provide any new information that Sherlock didn't already know, but it was good to confirm that fact anyway. Molly stood far to close to him as they looked over the evidence, but it wasn't unpleasant. Molly was actually lovely. A very nice, quiet, person that had an impossible crush, but somehow that didn't put Sherlock off too badly. She was sweet. He thought she probably was sweet to anyone when he wasn't around. Was it his fault that he distracted her so spectacularly?

Tonight, however, was the first night he felt a bit guilty about it. Because while she was distracted by him, he was distracted by the fit young man in the hallway, currently waiting for Sherlock. Poor Molly. She never had a fighting chance. Sherlock Holmes was already taken.

He swept back out into the hallway and smiled brightly as his eyes landed on John's figure tucked into a chair, knees pulled up, doing his best not to doze off.

"Ready?" he inquired as he ventured closer.

Sherlock was entirely unprepared for the image that began to unfold before him. He froze in place, doing his best to keep his features unaffected, but he was sure the shudder that ran through his body gave him away.

John uncurled himself from his position and raised his head, fluttering his sleepy blue eyes, smiling lazily and, Jesus, _happily_ at the tall man in the dark coat, as though his whole world had just arrived back to him.

Sherlock had to remind himself that while breathing was boring it was necessary for his life and he sucked in a deep inhale.

"Hi," John murmured groggily. "All good?"

Sherlock could only nod, finding that he had no words. Not in this perfect moment with this perfect boy. He wanted to run his fingers through his blonde hair, almost shaggy now from lack of haircuts and kiss him until they both couldn't breathe. He eyed him for a long moment, just taking in the sight of him waking up, and imagined what it would be like to wake up in the morning with John, cuddled up in bed, exchanging soft touches and slow kisses. He wondered what John would be like during morning sex. Would he be quiet and sweet and loving? Would he be fast and loud and efficient? What would he be like during regular night sex? What would he be like while Sherlock sucked him off? What would he-

His thoughts were cut off as he watched a tiny sliver of skin peek out from John's jumper as he raised his arms over his head and stretched. Sherlock watched the jumper ride up slightly, revealing a tanned mid-section and dirty blonde hairs trailing down and disappearing under his trouser waistband. God, he was fit. All hard but smooth muscles, runners muscles, with a bit of bulk from the years of rugby, and when in the hell had that become Sherlock's type? He swallowed thickly, gripping his fingers together behind his back to resist the urge to touch. They were in a morgue for Christ's sake. How unsexy is that?

Well, for Sherlock, it wasn't much of a deterrent but he was sure John wouldn't take to kindly to it.

"Ready when you are," John said as he shrugged on his coat and then moved, in the most subtle way possible, to Sherlock's side, not quite touching but close enough that if Sherlock were to reach out, he would move without hesitation right into his arm. As though he belonged there. As though he'd been there all along.

Maybe he had been.

Maybe Sherlock had just been waiting for him all this time.

That thought didn't scare him like he figured it should and he took off toward the door as calm as he could manage.

As they waited for the cab to come back around, John pulled him from his thoughts. "Wasn't Lestrade supposed to meet us here? Should we wait?"

Sherlock's lips twitched. "No need for him to come down when the case is closed."

John opened his mouth, then closed it, staring off in the distance. Sherlock refused to look at him, waiting for him to catch up.

He grinned when he felt John turn on him.

"Oh my God. You solved the case, didn't you?"

Sherlock bit his cheek, doing his best not to look smug. "Perhaps."

The taxi drove up and Sherlock gave John a gentle push toward it as the boy was still gaping at him in shock.

"You… you solved the case," John breathed in wonderment. "Wow. You solved it. In like, what, an hour? How?"

"It was rather simple, actually. It was the brother, obviously. He stole his sister's only precious possessions she had: all of her jewelry from her late husband. He pond it off for drug money. When she knew she wouldn't be able to get it back, she killed herself."

John's excited face faltered for a moment. "Oh. That's…rather sad," he said, dropping his gaze to his hands. He recovered quicker then Sherlock had anticipated though as he visibally shook his head and glanced back up. "And you got all that from 10 minutes inside her flat?"

Sherlock shrugged. "You were there. You heard all the things I saw." He raised an eyebrow at John. "And I abhor repetition."

John laughed. "Yeah, yeah alright, I won't make you repeat it, git." He grinned out the window. "But just… wow," he murmured more to himself then anything.

Sherlock smiled, never feeling so pleased with himself and his skills. How had he found someone like John Watson to be a part of his life? How had this all worked out? It didn't seem possible. Sherlock didn't deserve someone like John. He knew that from the start. But watching that blue-eyed boy smile because of a natural gift he held? It was… wonderful. He stared out the window, lost in the thought in the mystery that was John Watson. He continued to surprise Sherlock.

"I'm ready," a quiet but strong voice spoke almost on queue and Sherlock turned to look at the owner of those words. He cocked his head, running through everything that could possibly mean, and coming to the obvious conclusion, his eyes widened. He trailed his gaze over every line and crease on John's face, watching for any involuntary muscle spasm or sign that he was pushing himself too far. Sherlock found no hint of discomfort.

John's normally ocean-blue eyes were black, pupils blown as wide as can be. His lips were pinned together in a thin line and his posture was steady and confident as ever, shoulders squared toward his intended target. Sherlock had a brief memory of John sitting in the back of his Chemistry class on the first day of school, looking very similar to this. Of course, back then he was smirking with anticipation. There was no smirk on his face now. Only quiet determination.

"I'm not asking for the whole nine yards right now," John continued, voice steady as ever, no nervous fidgeting or tripping over his words. He meant everything that he said. "But I'm ready. We can start wherever you think is best, but please, can we start tonight?"

Somehow, those were the words Sherlock had no idea he'd been waiting to hear. He took a moment still, watching, calculating and deducing, ensuring that John wasn't making a rash decision. John kept his eyes trained on Sherlock, allowing himself to be observed, allowing Sherlock to confirm that he meant what he was saying.

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat, as he realized what he was seeing. Right here, in this moment, Sherlock was gaining a rare glimpse into who John was to become. He was receiving the privilege of seeing Dr. John Watson speak with authority to his subject, making his decision clear and not to be argued with. He was seeing John's inner strength peeking out, the strength that would shape him into the person he would be. And that person was someone Sherlock wanted to know. That person was someone Sherlock wanted to know every single part of.

Fighting back to gain the upper-hand again, seeing as he would be the one teaching this lesson John was requesting, Sherlock grinned and slid a hand over John's thigh, just as they were pulling up to Sherlock's flat.

"John," he murmured, locking eyes with him and dropping his voice subtly. "Would you like to come inside?"

John nodded once sharply and turned back to his own door, opening it calmly and coolly, not a hint of hesitation. There was nothing frantic or panicked about his movements, as he followed Sherlock into his flat.

* * *

><p>Sherlock closed the door, shrugged off his coat, hung it up, pulled off his gloves, toed off his shoes, then awkwardly said "I'm going to wash up," and disappeared into the loo. John frowned after him. Was Sherlock… nervous? Why was he nervous? This was his bloody area. He was excellent at this. It was John who should be nervous!<p>

John shook his coat off and sat down on the couch, then stood again, leaned back on the sofa arm then stood again. What was he supposed to do? Where should he be when Sherlock came back? How would this start?

Oh, God.

This was a bad idea.

It had been so easy last time. Sherlock had initiated, surprised him, and it all fell into place. John hadn't even had to worry about where his hands went or what Sherlock was doing. It was hard to think about logistics when someone's hand was on your cock.

He'd been so damn sure in the taxi that he could do this. Why couldn't he gather his courage now that he had a second to think? Dammit, why hadn't Sherlock pounced on him the moment they were inside? He'd been counting on him to take the lead. Not give John time to overthink it.

He started pacing, trying to right himself, talking himself down. He could do this. He'd googled the shit out of this stuff. Watched copious amounts of gay porn (like that was a hardship) and did his best to learn technique and what would be pleasurable for his partner.

Many of the postings he'd read about said it was a 'learn as you go' type thing. He'd find his way. And if he got stuck, the site had said, his partner would assist. Sherlock would help.

Oh fuck. Sherlock would be there.

Of course Sherlock would be there. He was in Sherlock's flat. Jesus. He needed to get it together. He was losing it.

_Come on, Watson. For godsake. If Mike 'I was straight until three months ago' can fuck a bloke, you can give a sodding-_

Oh. Where _would _they be starting? What would Sherlock expect? Oh God, he didn't even know.

This was a bad idea.

He turned back to pace the way he came, storming back and forth across the small flat.

Link and Mike were both new to it, weren't they? Sort of? They were probably stumbling through together. They could be awkward, with zero expectations and still have it be fantastic.

But Sherlock probably had expectations. John had already royally screwed up their first time, hadn't he? Not even thinking about reciprocating. It legitimately hadn't even crossed his mind until so much later. How awful was that? What kind of lover _forgot_ their partner's needs? Forgot _Sherlock_? Exotic, sexual, gorgeous Sherlock?

He couldn't do this. He couldn't please Sherlock. He didn't know the first thing about getting someone else off.

"John?"

John glanced up to find himself in the kitchen, hands clenched tightly at his sides and Sherlock leaning against the frame of the room looking concerned.

And somehow, he was calmed by that single word falling from Sherlock's lips. His name. That's all it took. Because it was one thing to watch a bunch of random people having sex, and do your best to learn the techniques on how to please a lover but it was a whole different ballgame when the person was someone you cared deeply for. Someone who you would happily surrender yourself entirely to, hand yourself over and say '_Do what you will. I'm yours_.' It was different. They weren't here to simply get off and be done with it. This was about…intimacy. God, that hadn't even crossed his mind until right now. This was about showing the other person what they meant to you.

All of this knowledge suddenly settled over John like a warm blanket and he smiled. John looked up into grey eyes and without speaking a word, told him everything. He trusted this man implicitly, and he was ready. So. Bloody. Ready.

Sherlock's lips curved into a slow smile, watching all of John's thoughts play across his face and he strode to him, crowding John slightly, leaning in to place a gentle kiss on his lips. John hummed, feeling all the tension and the panic draining slowly out of him, Sherlock's lips so reassuring over his.

Calm, warm hands came to either side of his jaw, tilting his head back slightly and John opened his mouth, offering himself for the taking. Sherlock took advantage, sweeping his tongue into John's mouth in delicate, calculated strokes. John gasped quietly, the familiar taste of Sherlock taking him over, every nerve in his body reaching for the man in front of him. John moved to slot their bodies together, pressing his hips to Sherlock's, whom murmured a sigh in response. He pressed deeper into John's mouth, finding his tongue and twisting them deliciously together, twirling slowly, dancing as though they'd known each other's mouths for years.

Sherlock's hands slid to John's neck delicately, fingers finding the hairs on the back of his neck and tugging gently, forcing a violent shudder and soft groan from his throat. Sharp teeth bit down on his lower lip and pulled it into warmth, sucking it and biting it again before releasing it. John was panting, mouth hanging open, silently begging for anything Sherlock was willing to give.

A hard surface hit the back of his hips and John's eyelids did their best to flutter open as hands left his face and instead grips his hips. Before he could properly comprehend what was happening, he was being settled onto the surface of the kitchen table, feet swinging in the air below him as Sherlock moved between his legs, pressing his hips against his. John moaned and clenched his still-clothed thighs tighter to Sherlock, ensuring he wouldn't disappear, the vague memory of the last time they were in this position flitting across his memory. Sherlock chuckled low in his throat, and slid his hands up the sides of John's torso.

"Now, where were we," Sherlock murmured in his ear as his hands trailed back down his stomach and dipped his fingers under the hem of John's jumper.

John made a sound he'd never heard himself make before as soft touches tickled his lower stomach, reaching slowly upward. How did skin on skin feel this good?

John's jumper was being tugged up by those soft hands, and he lifted his arms without thinking, pulling back enough for Sherlock to pull his shirt over his head. He opened his eyes as his hands were pulled free of the fabric and caught Sherlock's sharp eyes trailing over his naked torso.

"John," Sherlock breathed, dropping John's discarded jumper to the floor and settling his hands back on John's stomach, trailing fingers over hard muscles and faded scars.

John blushed deeply, feeling more self-conscious now that he was half undressed. Sherlock's eyes trailed up to his face as though drawn to the heat in his cheeks and his brow crinkled, although his features stayed soft.

"John," he murmured again. "You are...so beautiful."

John wanted to laugh at how ridiculous that statement was. Him, beautiful? With all his scars and funny tan lines from running? No, Sherlock was the beautiful one. Sherlock with his sharp features and pale skin accenting his dark hair and light eyes. Sherlock was the one with the looks.

But the way he said it made John stop short. Because Sherlock said it like it was fact. Like it was truth. Like if there was one thing he was to ever believe in his life, it was that John was beautiful.

And any sarcastic retort died in his throat as he pulled Sherlock back to him, digging his hands deeply into silken curls and pressing his tongue between perfectly bowed lips, moaning as those lips parted and let him back in.

Sherlock's fingers kneaded at John's pectoral muscles, trailing lightly over his nipples, then pressing gently into the skin below. John moaned again and dropped his hands to the buttons on Sherlock's perfectly tailored button-down.

"Christ, the sounds you make," Sherlock was murmuring, having moved his hands up to John's almost too-long hair, although he was thankful for the length now. He liked being used as leverage for Sherlock to hold on to. He hummed back as he plucked the buttons open, wanting to press his naked torso to Sherlock's more then anything. That thought drove him to tug a bit harder, forcing the last button through its captive hole and pushing the shirt down Sherlock's broad shoulders. Sherlock dropped his arms compliantly, allowing John to pull it off his wrists. John let himself take a long moment to look down at the pale body before him, somehow hard and soft all at once, holding the sharp edges that Sherlock's face held while simultaneously seeming inviting and sensual and God, John wanted to melt into him. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock, pressed his palms into the small of his back and brought him forward.

Sherlock moved so gracefully in John's clumsy grasp, and he would have been more focused on that if Sherlock's warm, muscle-ripped chest weren't currently pressing against him, firmly sealing them together. John gasped into Sherlock's mouth as their lips reconnected, the feeling of another person's bare chest against his was new and lovely.

John ran a hand up Sherlock's side and felt the smallest hint of raised flesh. He ran a finger up the line of the scarred tissue, and his breath hitched slightly as he realized he knew what it was from.

"John," Sherlock breathed against his cheek. "It's fine. I'm fine."

John pulled back to search those ever-changing eyes, trying to bite back the worry that was creeping up his chest. The look he received did feel reassuring but still, he hated the thought that Sherlock had been hurt. He lifted Sherlock's arm and bent to place a gentle kiss over the scar from the cut John had tended to all those weeks ago. It was still a dark pink, almost red, and still a bit scabbed over at one end, slowly healing itself. Sherlock let out a stuttered breath and their eyes met again as John straightened his spine. Sherlock took his face in his hands. "I'm fine," he repeated, locking John into an intense stare. "You fixed me."

John couldn't help but dive right back in to his mouth, pulling Sherlock tighter to him and all but drowning into this delicious snog, slowly allowing his mind to travel distantly away from Sherlock's dangerous habits and past and future pain he would surely endure. In this moment, all John wanted to think about were sensual lips and warm mouths belonging to gorgeous creatures named Sherlock Holmes.

He couldn't believe how intimate this was. How being with and touching another like this was almost surreal. Touching Sherlock like this was surreal. He never knew it would be like this, every touch so personal that it made every nerve in John's body sing. A shudder rippled down his back as Sherlock's large, strong hands found their way from his hips to his shoulder blades, leaving a blazing path in their wake. John trembled under the touch, dropping his mouth to Sherlock's shoulder, kissing and licking over his skin, biting softly when Sherlock moaned, his hands gripping John's shoulders harder, pulling him closer and closer. Sherlock's face fell into the crook of John's neck, sucking lightly on the skin and another tremor ran through him. John felt an overwhelming need to taste every inch of Sherlock's skin, find out what parts of him were sensitive and what parts would make him moan when John tended to them. The urge was carnal, a deep-seated need to feel and handle and _own_ this man. He was John's. He belonged to John now.

He found his hands on the button of Sherlock's trouser hook and eye and glanced up, wordlessly requesting permission as he involuntarily rolled his hips. Sherlock's hooded silver stare was all the answer he needed but still Sherlock whispered "God, yes," and John flicked open the clasp with one finger, feeling quite accomplished at that smooth move. He smiled and trailed his fingers down the lines of Sherlock's hips that lead into his trousers and his breath hitched as his hands met thick, curling hairs, announcing how very close he was to Sherlock's erection.

He faltered for a moment, a wave of nervousness washing over him.

Before he could think about it too much, Sherlock's hands were on his face, pulling his gaze from his crotch up to his eyes.

"Hey," Sherlock said softly, somehow centering John with that single word and John smiled at him. He's fine. What is he afraid of? This is Sherlock. _His_ Sherlock. Sherlock smiled back. "We don't have to do anything you don't want to. Okay? If you're uncomfortable, we can stop. It's alright."

John's answer was his hands delving further into Sherlock's pants, whispering, "The last thing...that I want to do... right now... is stop," and wrapped a hand around Sherlock's cock.

"_God_," Sherlock breathed heatedly, his eyes dropping closed and his lower lip disappearing between his teeth, a deep groan rumbling in his chest. John watched his face as he twisted one long, careful stroke, vaguely recognizing how both similar and different this was to doing it to himself. He paid close attention to Sherlock's every gasp, every shuddered breath, every curse and every fist clench as he dug one hand up the back of John's scalp into his hair and the other laid calmly on John's chest.

He grinned as he considered if this was how Sherlock felt every minute of every day, observing and saving information. He was planning to remember every reaction Sherlock had. For next time.

John ran a thumb gently over the head of Sherlock's cock and the hand in his hair tightened as Sherlock let out a small cry, jerking his head back and his hips forward, eyes still closed in concentration.

Christ, it was intoxicating to see this man in the throes of ecstasy and all John wanted, all he could possibly think about was seeing him have an orgasm. All he could ever ask for in this heated moment was to see Sherlock fall apart beneath his touch.

He dared to be bold and tugged Sherlock's trousers and pants down his thighs, pulling him out to gain better access. Sherlock sucked in a breath as the cold air hit his lower half. His eyes fluttered open in time to see John bring his free hand up and lick his palm, tossing Sherlock a wicked smile as he caught his gaze, dragging his hand sensually down his tongue. Sherlock's lips fell into a shocked 'oh,' eyelids falling further down in unadulterated arousal and excitement thrummed in John's lower belly. Turns out instinct really did take over. Maybe he could be good at this. He was too overwhelmed to let that thought go any further and continued his task.

He reached his now damp palm down to join his other hand and stroked Sherlock's erection, slowly and methodically, getting it as wet as he could with his spit and the pre-come that was now spilling freely out of the tip of Sherlock's cock. He continued his work, eyes trained on Sherlock's face as he began to pant, hot and heavy and not quietly in the least. He moaned, throwing his curls back and pushing into John's grasp, his hips thrusting faster and faster, gasping and digging his fingers into John's scalp almost painfully. John loved it.

"Yes, Sherlock," John heard himself say through panted breathes and why was _he_ panting? "Fuck, yes."

Sherlock let out a rather exotic sob, rolling his head back up and opening his eyes to stare directly into John's soul. John nodded at him, speeding up his hands and watched as Sherlock's body shook, stuttered and a final 'oh' escaped him as warm, thick liquid was spilling down John's hands. He didn't stop, not wanting to miss a moment as Sherlock's hips jerked, pleasing gasps escaping his lips, his eyes never leaving John's, blazing bright blue above pink-tinted cheeks. The colors on his face were accented beautifully, lips red and swollen below dark, sweaty curls tumbling down his forehead.

John couldn't resist. He reached up and traced those plump lips with the tips of his fingers, feeling Sherlock's heated breath over top of them.

What he wasn't prepared for was Sherlock to take his fingers in his mouth and bite down gently, sweeping his tongue along the tips and sucking. His eyes were still closed, as though tasting John's fingers was the best thing he'd ever experienced.

It wasn't something a sexually experienced person would ever do. He could have waited. He should have waited. It should have embarrassing. It should have horrified him. But John honestly didn't give two shits as he practically ripped the button of his own jeans off its thread and dove his hand into his pants, wanking furiously as he watched Sherlock suck his fingertips and recover from the orgasm John, John bloody Watson, had just given him and he had never been so proud in his life. He watched his fingers disappear into that delicate mouth as he stroked himself, his cock aching almost painfully, the sight of Sherlock coming tipping him right over the edge. Porn had _nothing_ on Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock was just calming down, blinking rapidly and breathing finally slowing and he froze as he recognized what was taking place in front of him. John trailed his now wet fingers down Sherlock's chin and to his chest, needing to keep touching him as he touched himself.

And then Sherlock lowered his head just a notch, looked deeply into his eyes and said "John," in the fucking filthiest way John had ever heard in his life and a surge of lust tumbled through him like liquid fire.

"Oh _fuck_," he gritted out, feeling so bloody close to the edge he could taste it. He forced himself to keep his eyes open, not wanting to miss a moment of those grey eyes trained on him like he was something to eat. He was sure he was making absurd noises but he couldn't be arsed to care as he slowly lost himself in that cool stare. He was so focused he missed the hand in his hair trailing down his body and only realized another hand had entered his boxers when long, slender fingers slipped underneath his own.

"Let me," he heard Sherlock murmur, low and deep, as though pleading with John to allow him to give him his orgasm. "Please let me, John."

And John found his hands buried deep in dark curls as Sherlock's delicate fingers wrapped around his cock and stroked long, languid pulls, tearing sounds from John's throat as though the parts were directly connected. He tried to pull Sherlock in to kiss him, to let him focus on something other then his orgasm that was approaching all too quickly, but when he reached those luscious lips, Sherlock gave a dirty flick of his wrist and John's lips froze over top of his, half opened in a silent scream. A thumb flicked over his apparently very hard and very sensitive nipple and John let out a guttural cry, quivering under the touch. He felt more then heard a baritone rumble words of encouragement and his vision blurred ever so slightly, his body trying to process all the sensations and unable to do so. He felt a soft tongue flick against his own, his lips still connected to Sherlock's, and a shiver ran straight from his mouth to the tip of his cock and he was done for.

"I…I'm-oh-I-_Sherlock_-" he sobbed, almost entirely incoherent, babbling half sentences and cursed to the high heavens.

Sherlock whispered, "Come for me, John," over his lips, and those words all but shoved him right over the edge, as John shook violently and then he was coming hard and thick and fast, writhing into slender fingers that were touching him so perfectly. He held on to Sherlock's hair, probably painfully, but he couldn't be concerned about that now as his hips bucked into Sherlock's hand, cock throbbing and spurting all over the inside of his jeans. His world was spinning faster and faster, turning a vague white for a long moment until finally the spinning turned slower and duller and colors reformed in his vision as John dropped his head to Sherlock's shoulder and gave one last shudder.

Neither of them made an effort to move away. They could have been there for hours, days, weeks and John wouldn't have noticed. Or minded.

****I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it.****


	14. Chapter 14

****I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it. Okay, so I AM SO SORRY for posting and then deleting this chapter last night, but I promise it was for a good reason! The reason was: I hated it. I wasn't happy with it at all and tried to leave it alone but I couldn't do it so I deleted it and I'm SORRY! But I promise it's way better now! Thank you for your patience and enjoy!****

"So, where is he taking you tonight?" Mike was leaning against the frame of John's door, arms crossed, smirking as he watched John pick out his clothes from his dresser. "Another crime scene? Maybe one with an actual dead body this time?"

"I have no idea", John laughed, tugging out an undershirt and tossing it on the bed. "What are you and your beloved Link doing this evening?"

Mike's face drained of color. "It's not like that," he spat. "We're just… friends. Who are sleeping together."

John turned and eyed his friend, hearing the hurt underlying his words. "Okay…Why are you getting upset?"

"I'm not," Mike replied, a bit too harshly to be believed.

"Mike," John said softly. "What's going on?"

Mike stood in the doorway, attempting to keep up the façade of not being upset for a moment longer, until he finally sighed and sauntered over the John's bed, dropping down heavily. "This is stupid," he said, scrubbing a hand down his face.

John came to sit beside him. "What is stupid?"

Mike sighed again and huffed a laugh. "We're not dating or anything, Link and I. We're just fucking. Which seemed so brilliant at the time we decided it. But he's…great. Fantastic, really. And I see you getting all dolled up to go out with Sherlock, on a _real _date and I just feel like…I dunno, like I want that I guess."

John nodded, although he really didn't understand at all. The friends with benefits thing did not sound appealing in the least to him now. Not after experiencing what sex with someone you care about was like. He and Sherlock had repeated their kitchen table episode several times in the past few weeks and it only got better. Why anyone would want to take out the feelings and just have straight sex with someone was beyond John's comprehension.

"Why don't you talk to him about it?"

Mike smirked. "Is that what you do with Sherlock?" he teased. "Just talk about all your thoughts and feelings and how much you loooove each other?"

John laughed. "Actually, yeah, that's exactly what we do. It works for us. Although, the love thing...we haven't-I mean he hasn't…and neither have I, but-"

"Okay, okay, slow you're roll there, mate, you're gunna hurt yourself!" Mike laughed, slapping John on the back. "I get it. You haven't said the forbidden L word yet?"

John shook his head, feeling his face heat up in embarrassment.

"But you do, don't you? Love him, I mean?" Mike asked, his tone softening.

John's cheeks must be on fire by now as he looked down at his hands. He couldn't keep a stupid smile from spreading across his face and he felt himself nod. "I-yeah. Yeah I do," he all but whispered.

Mike laughed. "Well then, tell him! Can't be that hard, right?"

"If you will, I will," John teased and Mike laughed again.

"Yeah, yeah alright. I'm actually headed over there now, so I better get going." Mike stood up and walked to the door.

"Have fun. And seriously, think about talking to him, alright?"

Mike nodded. "Yeah, for sure. Listen, um," Mike ran a hand through his hair. "I'm, uh…I'm really glad your happy. I know back home things were tough and I'm just, uh, really glad you're doing well."

John beamed at his best friend. "Thanks, mate," he said softly. "Now quit giving me that doe-eyed look and go get your man."

Mike grinned. "Whatever," he grumbled good-naturedly. "See you later."

"Don't have too much fun!" John called as the front door closed. He laughed and looked back to his clothes on the bed.

He was so bloody happy, he could barely stand it. The fact that his best friend just pointed it out to him proved it all the more. John Watson was in _love._ And he was _happy_. Who would ever have thought? John turned to his mirror and looked at his reflection.

And grinned.

Even he could see it. The healthy colors in his face, the brightness of his eyes, the way his shoulders sat back and tall, the way he carried himself. Sherlock Holmes had done a number on him and god, was he glad he did.

Sherlock Holmes.

How he loved that name.

And everything that came with it.

When he was near, John's heart pounded harder. When they touched, John's heart all but exploded. Hell, when Sherlock looked at him, John could just… he didn't even have a good explanation.

There were no words.

Except the one.

Love.

He loved Sherlock.

He smiled at his reflection again, feeling oddly giddy and slightly stupid and almost drunk on the happiness that warmed him all over. He turned back to his clothes and pulled them on with care, then grabbed his hair product and turned back to the mirror.

John was dragging his fingers through his hair for the umpteenth time, trying to get it to at least lay down and look presentable for his date with Sherlock, when a loud and insistent pounding on the door of his flat startled him out of his task. He glanced at the clock and frowned. Sherlock wasn't due to pick him up for another twenty minutes and that man was never early or late for their dates, always annoyingly, perfectly on time.

He smirked, considering maybe he'd come early for a quick wank exchange before dinner, seeing as they'd been doing a lot of that lately.

The pounding continued. Sherlock never knocked like that. But who the hell else could it be? Mike had a key, and he was with Link.

He scraped his hand through his unruly fringe one more time in case it _was_ Sherlock, before heading toward the door. The pounding hadn't stopped and John cursed under his breath as he pulled open the door open.

A blonde blur fell passed him and onto the floor, clearly having been leaning against the door before it was pulled out from under them. The body, very obviously belonging to a female, cackled and rolled over rather ungracefully, grinning wetly up at John. "Helloooo baby brother!"

John's eyes widened in shock. "Harry?!"

Harry threw her arms out above her. "O'course! Who else could I be, hmm?" She rolled to her side and staggered to stand properly, John catching her by the elbow and steading her as he closed the door.

"Harry, what in God's name are you doing here?" John asked, slightly panicked. Harry laughed again, flipping her hair and swaying ever so slightly on her feet. She smiled dazedly and an acidic gust of air hit John square in the face. "Oh fuck. How drunk are you?"

Harry scoffed. "I am-n-not drunk, Johnny," she slurred. "I wanted to come seeeee yoooou!" She poked him in the nose and laughed manically when he swatted her hand away, then swayed toward the main room and looked around like she'd never seen the inside of a flat before, squinting her eyes and catching herself when she drifted her weight too far to one side and almost tipped over.

"How did you even get here?" John demanded. He hadn't seen or spoke to any of his family members in months. He hadn't seen Harry in _years_. She barely ever called or texted and she never came home again after moving out. Harry stumbled to the couch and flopped down.

"Johnny, why you so cranky? I missed ya! I got on a damn train! London isn't that hard to get to ya know!" She turned to smile insincerely at John. "Even though you obviously tried to get as far away from the fucked up Watson clan as you could," she sneered.

"Harry-"

"Hey, I'm not judging," she said, throwing up her hands in a mock surrender. "I did the same thing. But take it from me; you can move all you want, but you can't stop being a Watson!" She grimaced.

John stared at her for a long moment. "Are you ok?"

Harry cackled again. "I'm fine, Johnny! So fine! Happier then anyone has ever been. Great life I got. Far away from those fucking parents of ours and living the good life." She spread her arms out and raised her eyebrows. "Can't you tell?"

John had no idea how to respond to that. He didn't even know Harry. Not really. Five years his senior, moving out when he was fourteen, it wasn't like they were close. He hadn't seen her in the four years since she'd left.

"Look, Harry, I-"

"Mum and dad are getting a divorce," she announced, rolling to her back to stare up at the ceiling.

John froze. "What?"

"'Bout fuckin' time if you ask me," she continued. "They're better off on their own, don't ya think?"

"They're... divorcing?" John asked hoarsely. He had no idea why that fact was hitting him in the gut so hard. It wasn't like his parents gave a shit about him or Harry but it hurt all the same.

Harry rolled her water eyes. "Don't get all emotional about it, Johnny. They hate each other." She grinned a sickly grin. "But not as much as they hate us."

John tried to avoid the way his skin prickled. "They don't hate us, Harry," he attempted half-heartedly. He didn't really think his parents hated them. He always thought they just didn't particularly care. It wasn't a like or dislike. Just a noninterest.

"Oh, right," Harry bobbed her head as though in understanding. "They didn't hate _you _when you still lived there. But then again... they didn't know they have two gay kids then, did they?"

John stared for a long moment, then swallowed hard. "W-what?"

"Oh please, you think everyone back home didn't hear about your little confession to Jake Bailey at the end of the summer? Everyone knows, Johnny. _Everyone_. Including mummy and daddy dearest. And I'm sure you haven't forgotten what happened when they found out about me."

It was like the air had been sucked from the room and John was slowly suffocating. He did his best to get himself together but the on slot of new things he'd just learned was jarring. He forced himself to focus on the last question. What happened with Harry. What had happened to Harry?

He didn't know what had happened to Harry. He knew she left. He knew she hadn't come back. But the reasons were vague at best. John had been hiding in his room when that final discussion had taken place. He couldn't make out any actual words. All there had been was yelling, a horrible resounding slap, and a door slamming. The next day, Harry was gone. When John asked his mother if she was coming back, the answer he got was a screaming match between his parents and an order to go to his room. He'd tried to call her and text her over and over, scared and confused as to where she'd gone. The only response he received was a text message that read: "Leave me alone, John. I'm safe. But I'm not coming back."

Months later, Harry had called him in the middle of the night drunkenly sobbing about how she was so sorry. For what, he had no idea. She said she was better off away from them. It had been the most disturbing phone call he had received.

Those calls continued over the next four years, although few and far between.

"Harry are you-"

"Oh, stop it, Johnny," Harry said, propping herself up on her elbow. "Yes, I'm a lesbian. Surprise! And oh, weren't our parents so proud when they found out!"

John gaped at her, filling with so many emotions his body started to shake.

"It's not that big of a deal anymore so can you stop looking at me like a shocked guppy? I'm gay. So are you. Our parents are awful human beings who are finally getting out of each other's lives. Big fuckin' deal." Harry flopped back onto the couch and threw an arm over her eyes.

John couldn't move. He'd really never considered how his parents would react when they found out he was gay. Truthfully he hadn't given it much thought. They hadn't cared when he made the rugby team, barely batted an eye when he made captain. They had hardly even registered that he was going to uni, leaving him to get himself moved and paid for. Never had they been concerned about anything in his life before. Why would this affect them? His parents had done a remarkable job of being absent while present. Why would things change now when he was no longer around? And why did they care if he was gay?

"Look," Harry continued, as though she hadn't just dropped those bombs on John's life. "My advice? Don't go back there. They've been pretending they don't have children anymore anyway, so don't worry about it."

"What do you mean their pretending they don't have kids?"

Harry rolled her eyes. "Not speaking about us, not thinking about us. The usual really only now when people bring us up, they say they don't have children. I heard they're both moving away, to separate places of course, although to where I have no idea. Start a fresh, new, childless and spouseless life I s'pose. Who cares? I'm not worried about it and neither should you be."

John's vision blurred. Don't worry about it? Don't worry about your own parents pretending they don't have you? Pretending you don't exist? Don't worry that your sister is a lesbian and was kicked out of your home so long ago for it? And you didn't even know? John's world was suddenly on its head. "Oh right," he muttered. "I won't worry that I don't have parents anymore, Harry."

Harry shrugged. "Been workin' for me for the past few years. And like I said. I've never been happier." She closed her eyes, sighing deeply.

John stared. And stared. And couldn't stop staring as his mind turned over and over. His sister was lying drunk on his couch. His parents, who apparently hated him, were getting divorced. He frowned. "Wait a damn minute," he said suddenly. "Why are you here? You could have called and told me all this, you know. Not that you call anyway but if you felt it vital information for my life, why didn't you pick up the phone?"

He watched as Harry inhaled deeply and then exhaled a broken, shaky breath, her lip trembling slightly. When she opened her eyes, they were damp, but she pressed on like nothing was amiss. "Like I said. I missed ya!" she attempted to keep her overly excited tone but was undercut by the surge of emotion in her voice. She blinked hard and tried to grin again but the look that crossed her face was a grimace mixed with sadness.

John stared at his sister for a long moment. "Harry," he said softly. "Tell me."

She stared up at the ceiling and bit her lip, then rolled toward the wall, turning her back on John. "I need to sleep."

John nodded. "Alright," he said softly. "Sleep and then maybe we can talk later after my-"

Harry suddenly turned back and grabbed John's arm. "Why are you all dressed up?"

John looked down at the hand on him then back at his sister. "Uh… I have a date."

Harry's eyes widened for a fraction of a second, then her grip tightened and her face fell into a sneer. "Oh really? With who? Obviously not with Jake, seeing as you royally mucked that up."

John frowned and tugged on his arm, but Harry didn't let go. "Um, no, not Jake, his name is-"

He was cut off by Harry cackling. "Oh Johnny, you poor sod!" She laughed maniacally, as though he was the stupidest person she'd ever met. "You haven't learned yet, have you?" She continued to laugh, the sound sending cold shivers up John's spine.

"Figured out what?"

"You're a Watson!" Harry cheered, as though this information weren't obvious and continued to cackle. "Johnny! I thought you were supposed to be the smart one in our family? The _doctor_? Boy, you're dumber then a box a rocks!" She let go of him as he stumbled back as though he'd just been slapped and she laughed harder, rolling around on the couch like someone possessed.

A knock on the front door made both John and Harry jump in surprise, the sound putting a halt to Harry's laughter. John looked toward the door in panic, then back at Harry and swallowed thickly.

Harry raised her eyebrows, a smirk playing on her lips. "That'll be him then, yeah?"

John tried to bite back the cold dread of letting Sherlock in, letting him actually see for himself how unstable the Watson family was.

He tossed a glare at Harry and then stormed to the door, yanking it open.

John could have cried with relief as he took in the tall, familiar figure in the doorway, coat billowing out around his slender frame, curls perfectly coiffed, gray eyes bright with anticipation. John didn't realize he'd been aching to see Sherlock since the start of this conversation with Harry and wanted to go to him so badly, only hesitating due to his sister being in the room.

Sherlock had a soft expression on until he took in John's demeanor, and his face promptly fell with concern.

"John," Sherlock breathed, stepping inside. "Are you alright?"

John bit back tears. "You have no idea how happy I am to see you," he murmured, wanting nothing more then to burry his face in Sherlock's neck.

"And who in the bloody fuck might you be?"

John squeezed his eyes shut. Maybe if he didn't look up, Harry would simply disappear, along with the awful things she'd said.

Sherlock, ever observant, seemed to deduce exactly what had been going on before he arrived. John opened his eyes to see Sherlock staring indifferently at his sister.

"Ah, of course," Sherlock responded coolly, as though John weren't currently shaking in front of him. "The alcoholic sister I presume? So nice to finally make your acquaintance, Harriet."

A dry laugh came from the couch and John shivered at the unwelcome sound, unwillingly turning toward the sound. "Mm, I get it. You're the boyfriend that protects John from his big bad family, aren't ya? So sweet." She turned to John. "He'll leave you, ya know. Just like dad is leaving mom. Just like Clara left me. We're too messed up for relationships, Johnny. Things never work out for people like us." She leaned back on the couch. "Like I said: you're a Watson."

And that's when John finally found his voice. Just as Sherlock was stepping around him, posed to strike with a few words of his own, John turned on his sibling. "Oh fuck you, Harry," he spat, unsure where the boiling anger was coming from but using it anyway.

"John," Sherlock murmured but John threw up a hand, still seething in Harry's direction.

"Leave it Sherlock." He balled his fists, trying to control himself as he glared at his older sister. "Thank you for dropping in on my life and throwing all this shit at me, I really do appreciate it. But don't you dare speak to Sherlock like that. Yes, he cares for me and supports me, unlike my family members. I'm sorry you have such a fucked up view of the world, and I get it Harry, I really do. We're both bred from the same pair of miserable people, so I get that you went that way but I didn't. I chose to grow the fuck up and try to find something worthwhile in my life and become something of myself, and I got lucky enough to have found someone that I love in the process. So don't you come here and try to fuck all that up just because life dealt you a shitty deck of cards. I got the same hand, and I'm going to do my damndest to make the best of them."

He'd stalked over to her during his speech, towering over her in anger. "And I don't know who the hell Clara is, but I am certain she's no Sherlock Holmes."

Harry glared up from the couch, propping herself up on her elbows and sneering viciously at him. "Oh, I'm sure Sherlock is wonderful, John. One of a kind, I bet. Does he tell you cares for you? Tell you he loves you? Does he hold your hand and treat you like you're something special? That's exactly how mum and dad started you know. And me and Clara. It didn't last. Just like you won't. He will leave you. It'll never work out. Ever. And I'm not telling you this to hurt your, Johnny, I'm telling you this because you need to know. I'm sorry I have to be the one to give you the cold hard facts but I wasn't aware that you were living in a fantasy world. You and me aren't meant for happiness, John. The sooner you realize that, the easier it'll be for you. If not, then soon you'll be the one on my doorstep, broken and pathetic, simply because you didn't listen to your big sister."

John was seeing red and in very real danger of hitting his sibling for shattering his happy bubble when a calm hand settled on his shoulder. He closed his eyes, focusing in on the touch and not on his pending rage, breathing deeply in through his nose.

"Our reservation will be canceled if we don't get on our way," Sherlock said softly, as though John hadn't almost just come to blows with his sister.

He nodded sharply, hearing Sherlock's words for what they really were, and pointed a finger at Harry. "Stay here and get some sleep."

Harry laced her fingers behind her head and laid back on the couch, looking pleased as punch with her sadistic self. "Where else would I go Johnny? Have fun on your _date_." She spat the last word like it was vile in her mouth. John resisted another urge to scream.

Sherlock tugged on his arm and led him from the room.

As the door slammed behind them and London's cool air hit John, he turned to Sherlock.

"What-" John started to say, but he was silenced by Sherlock grabbing his wrist.

"Not here," he whispered, and pulled John to the waiting taxi. John went along, still caught up the whirlwind of anger and hurt his sister had just dropped into his life.

He settled into the back of the taxi, took a shuddering breath and tried to focus on Sherlock and not all the emotions reeling within him. He'd almost forgotten what it felt like to live in the Watson household. He'd almost forgotten what the constant tension felt like, what being alone surrounded by family felt like, what feeling battered and broken every day felt like. He'd almost forgotten entirely. So it would only make sense for Harry to show up now. Give him a swift kick in the arse and remind him he couldn't get away that easily. Remind him that he could run away to London, or run away to France or hell, run away to fucking Antarctica and he would still be a Watson, born from parents that didn't love him, didn't care about him, and now apparently actively hated him. No one had ever loved John Watson. Not even his own family. How foolish had he been to think that would all change now?

Harry's words shook him to his core because she was living and breathing proof that even if you got out of that household that he grew up in, you never really got away. She'd been four years gone and just look at her. Look at her obviously broken life. Was that who he was destined to be? In four years time, would he become her?

"I'm sorry," John murmured. "You shouldn't have had to see all that. That wasn't- I don't even know what that was but I'm sorry you had to witness it." He stared down in his lap, trying to bite back the humiliation.

A pale hand came into view and warm fingers laced with his. He glanced up to see Sherlock staring intently at him.

"Do not apologize for someone else's behavior, John. It wasn't your fault. If anyone should be doling out apologies, it should be your sister."

"I haven't seen her in years," John said, still in disbelief that all of that had even happened. "We barely speak."

Sherlock stroked the back of his hand with his thumb. "She clearly just broke up with someone, that Clara person I presume," he murmured. "She's just lost someone important to her, probably due to something she did. My guess would be the drinking was what ended it. She's now under the impression that you are the only one that would understand since you were also rejected a few months ago, and she believes her misfortune is due to in most part to her upbringing, something she believes you also relate to. She thought she would find your life in a similar state as hers. And like they say; misery loves company." Sherlock looked back toward the front of the cab. "I'm afraid I may have been the one to set off the harsher comments. She wasn't expecting you to be with someone, nor was she expecting to see that you make that someone very happy. She was unable to do that with Clara."

John bit his lip, a smile playing on his lips as everything from the last half hour paused and his thoughts zeroed in on Sherlock's words. "I make you happy?"

Sherlock turned back to him quickly, his brow wrinkling in confusion. "Of course you do. I thought that were fairly obvious."

John preened feeling like he'd just won the lottery. He made Sherlock happy. He, plain old John Watson made amazing Sherlock Holmes happy.

God, he loved this man.

He bit back those words about to tumble out of his mouth, deciding now was not the time to blurt that out, and brought the conversation back to the original topic. "Okay," he said, running his hand through his hair. "She just had her heart broken. I suppose I can understand the outburst then."

Sherlock's hand tightened slightly on John's. "That isn't an excuse for her to come here and treat her younger brother in such a way."

"Maybe not, but I can still appreciate that she wasn't in her right mind."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him, but said nothing. Then suddenly turned to the driver and announced their destination had changed and gave him a different address. John frowned.

"Where are we going?"

Sherlock held tight to his hand but seemed to mentally retreat. "You'll see." Then he sat back, pulled out his phone and leaned back against the seat.

He didn't say a word to John the rest of the way, and after 20 minutes of silence and the dull roar of the engine, the myriad of emotions he'd experienced in a short time finally took a toll on him and John dozed off into a comfortable sleep.

* * *

><p>"What happened?" Victoria Holmes demanded in a sharp whisper as Sherlock stared up at her from inside the car, a blonde head snuggled in his lap snoring softly.<p>

Sherlock raised a finger to his lips. "Help me get him inside and I'll explain," he murmured.

Victoria nodded and supported John's head as Sherlock slipped out of the car. He then reached back in and slid his arm under John's shoulder and behind his knees, lifted and swept him out of the car bridal-style. He jerked his head toward the house and his mother hurried ahead of him, opening the front door for the pair. Sherlock carried John swiftly inside, and to his room, Victoria following close behind.

Sherlock laid John down in his bed, slipping off his shoes and tugging his coat down his shoulders. Surprisingly, this is where John stirred.

"Sh'lock?" He slurred, trying to open his eyes.

Sherlock pulled his jacket free, then swept a hand through John's hair. "It's alright John, go back to sleep. I'm right here."

John only nodded and rolled over, snuggling into the blankets as Sherlock pulled the comforter over him. He kissed his temple then went back to his mother, who was hovering in the doorway. They closed the door silently and Sherlock blew out a breath.

"Kitchen," Victoria mouthed, nodding her head back down the hallway. He followed behind her silently.

"Alright," Victoria said in a normal tone of voice as Sherlock slumped into one of the barstools at the counter in the large kitchen. "First of all, is he alright?"

Sherlock huffed a humorless laugh. "I have no idea. Truthfully. His sister showed up intoxicated at his flat, barged in, had about twenty minutes alone with him before I arrived, so who knows what was said. It was horrible enough when I was in the room. My presence didn't deter her one bit."

Victoria flicked on the kettle then leaned over the table, resting her weight on her elbows. "Was she awful?"

"_Awful_," Sherlock emphasized, leaning his forehead into his hand. "How did she and John come from the same people? He's kind and funny and she's miserable and mean."

"You and Mycroft came from your dad and I, and you both couldn't be more different then us if you tried," Victoria offered a small smile as she spoke.

Sherlock nodded. "I suppose that's true. I mean, don't misunderstand me, Mycroft is insufferable. But the sheer viciousness of Harriet's words was enough for me to feel somewhat tolerant of my older brother."

Victoria looked positively shocked and Sherlock chuckled at the reaction.

"My word, what has this boy done to my serious son?" she murmured, beaming at her youngest child.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, hiding his smile as he looked down. This was the only thing he could think to do for John. The only thing he thought would help.

He wanted to share his family with John. He wanted John to be a part of his family. Know that there was a mother and father out there that loved him. Know that there was a family out there for him. He wanted that for John so much it hurt.

He'd known this would all come out soon. After their month of Friday night meetings, he knew at some point, something would happen. John was obviously from an abusive home. Of course, John was under the impression that abuse was a relative term, if the night of the club was any indication so of course he wouldn't consider himself maltreated. Which made things much more difficult. But Sherlock knew at some point, they would need to discuss it. At some point, John would realize just what exactly had gone on in his home and he may have a bit of a breakdown.

What Sherlock hadn't anticipated was a bitter, drunk sister showing up out of nowhere to throw all of her problems in John's face. By all accounts, they hardly ever spoke, not keeping in touch in the slightest. He'd had Mycroft keep eyes on her just in case after John told him he suspected Harry had a drinking problem, seeing as the only time he heard from her was late at night when she'd clearly been hitting the bottle. But Sherlock hadn't considered her a dangerous person. A sad person maybe but not a trigger for John.

He had sorely miscalculated.

"So why is he fast asleep in your bedroom right now then?" Victoria pressed.

"I didn't know what else to do," Sherlock said. "I don't think I'm… enough to help with this. I think… I just thought that maybe he needed to see a family. A real, working, functioning family. One he could be a part of if he wished. I mean we're not perfect but we're better then the Watson's. I just wanted him to know that he wasn't alone."

Victoria reached over and took Sherlock's hand. "He's not alone, Sherlock. He has you. And of course, we will welcome him into our home. But that didn't answer my question; why is he asleep?"

Sherlock frowned. "Oh. Apparently if he's in a car for too long, he falls asleep easily. I didn't want to wake him. He had a horrific day of family problems and truthfully I sort of liked the idea of him waking up in a house surrounded by family who will actually acknowledge his existence."

Victoria gave Sherlock's hand another squeeze. "Well then. I'd better get out the house ready for company and let your father know. You boys are welcome to stay here for the weekend of course."

Sherlock nodded his thanks, never feeling more grateful for his mother then right at this moment. "I should go sit with John. So he doesn't wake up alone in a strange house."

Victoria smiled. "Good idea. I'll have the maids bring him some clean clothes and set them outside your door."

"Thank you mummy."

"Of course dear." Victoria went to leave, but stopped short at the doorway and turned back. "I can't wait to officially meet the man that has captured my son's heart, Sherlock," she smiled brightly, then took off down the hall.

Sherlock smiled down into his hands, then headed back to his room.

He silently opened the door and slipped inside, closing it soundlessly behind him. He divested his coat and shoes, and slid into bed, next to John.

The boy was sound asleep, laid out on his back mouth hanging open ever so slightly, inhaling deeply, huffing little breaths as he exhaled. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, his fingers twitching slightly.

Sherlock was completely and utterly besotted. Positively and irrevocably in love with John Watson, yes he was. He'd suspected of course, so many times before, wondering if what he was feeling was true love or simply infatuation. But now, watching John peacefully sleep, forgetting for a few hours about his horrible family and his horrible sister, Sherlock knew, without a shadow of a doubt.

John Watson was his everything.

He wanted to touch him. To reach out and touch his fidgeting fingers, run his hand over his chest, brush his fingers through his hair. He hesitated, afraid of waking him and stealing these few blissful hours of peace from him.

Turns out, he didn't have to make that decision.

John sniffed, murmured something intelligible, then rolled over toward Sherlock, half his body landing on top of Sherlock's.

Sherlock froze, terrified that John had just woken up. But to his surprise, John readjusted himself, laying his cheek on Sherlock's chest, one arm slung over his waist, and he settled his weight against Sherlock, snuggling in and practically burrowing, humming with contentment, then going silent.

Sherlock smiled as John's sleeping body adjusted and fitted itself into Sherlock. Like they'd been doing this for their whole lives, when the truth was they hadn't spent a single night together.

It was perfect.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow Sherlock would tell him. Tonight he would let him sleep. And tomorrow, he would tell John everything. And let John decide for himself if Sherlock Holmes was worthy of being loved by John Watson.

****I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it. Smut next chapter, I promise!****


	15. Chapter 15

****I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it. WARNINGS: Delightful sex. Discussions of drug use and suicide.****

"John."

The word hung in the air, dripping in sex and heat and need. He hummed in appreciation, feeling those long, nimble fingers sliding all over his body.

"John, wake up."

No way. They were just getting to the good part.

"John." Sherlock's voice was more present now but no sharper. A warm hand brushed through his hair and John started slightly with a deep inhale.

"Sh'lock?" he slurred, his voice thick with sleep as he came to, trembling slightly from that delightfully dirty dream he'd just been having. And now Sherlock was here.

Sherlock was here? Mm, this was a nice surprise. He'd never woken up in bed with him before.

"Good morning John," Sherlock soothed, running his fingers through John's fringe.

"What're you doing in m'bed?" John tried to tease, although his words garbled a bit as he stretched his muscles, unwilling to open his eyes. He didn't care much why Sherlock was here. He was just very pleased that he was.

"Ah, I think you mean my bed," Sherlock murmured, his voice tinted with amusement.

John's flew open, his arms freezing in mid-stretch over his head, as he looked directly into warm, green eyes, crinkling at the sides from the smile that played along his lips.

This was a very nice sight to wake up to. But how had he gotten here?

"Oh no need to panic," Sherlock chuckled, watching John carefully. "I put you here."

John furrowed his brow for a moment, planning to ask more questions. Particularly one about why he was only in his pants and undershirt while Sherlock was already fully dressed in a light blue button down and dark trousers. But the effects of his dream were still in full force and Sherlock had just confirmed he was a welcome guest in this bed. And Sherlock was _right here_. John didn't really want to ask questions. He could ask questions later.

Sherlock was smiling warmly at him. "I think I like waking you up. You're rather gorgeous in the morning." He was dropping his voice in that way that made shivers run all over John's body and before he'd made a conscious decision, he was reaching for Sherlock and pulling him down, capturing his lips as John's back hit the mattress. Sherlock's hands came to either side of John's head, hovering over him and chuckling quietly. "Well, good morning to you too."

"Mm," John grunted in response, too busy concerning himself with snogging Sherlock senseless. "I was dreaming about you."

"Oh really?" Sherlock whispered over his lips. "And what were you dreaming about in particular?"

"Very naughty things." John bit at his lower lip.

"I see," Sherlock murmured in mock seriousness, trailing his tongue to John's neck. "Do you need my assistance in making those dreams a reality?"

"I need your assistance in teaching me about-oh-morning sex," John replied breathlessly as Sherlock licked his ear.

"Well that is a very important lesson indeed. I believe I'm up for the task seeing as I have such an eager student to teach." Sherlock dragged his tongue over his ear, wrapping his arms around John's body as he settled his weight, gyrating slowly against him. John's hands found purchase on Sherlock's lower back and one arse cheek, pulling him as close as possible.

Sherlock kissed him deeply, sucking and licking into his mouth with purpose and John responded in kind. He could feel Sherlock's belt digging into his hip and he shifted, attempting to move away from it, moving his leg further out, flattening his other foot and- oh, _Jesus_.

Sherlock rolled his hips against John's, their erections now pressed perfectly together and John gasped, scrabbling at Sherlock's back to keep the friction, to gather him as close as possible. They rocked together slowly, John moaning into Sherlock's mouth, arching his neck to open himself up further. He needed... god he needed something and...

The rocking halted and Sherlock was pulling away. John whined and opened his eyes to find Sherlock staring down at him with a fierce expression.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," Sherlock said seriously as he pulled himself up to his knees and ran his hands over John's clothed chest.

John nodded frantically, agreeing to whatever Sherlock wanted in advance as he watched Sherlock's eyes roam over his body. Sherlock hadn't asked him to tell him if he wanted to stop since that first night on the kitchen table, so this boded well that they may be trying something new.

John could feel himself vibrating with anticipation. He was so bloody ready to move forward. Not that there was anything wrong with what they'd been doing but it still felt like there was so much more of Sherlock to explore and he desperately wanted that.

Sherlock tugged John's t-shirt up under his arms and ducked down, placing a soft kiss on his ribcage, ghosting his fingers down either side of his torso.

John sucked in a breath, the gentle touch shocking him slightly. Sherlock trailed another kiss next to it and then another along the outline of the bone, until he reached the center line of John's stomach muscles. He opened his mouth and pressed his tongue flat against the line, dragging a lingering lick up John's chest, in between his pectorals.

"Ohh," John groaned, straining his neck to watch this sensual movement, Sherlock's curls tickling his lips as he kissed his breastbone. John pushed a hand into those inky ringlets, riding the movement of Sherlock's mouth on him, unable to stop panting ragged breaths in anticipation of where Sherlock's mouth would end up next.

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed approvingly over his skin as he flicked his tongue over the hardened pink peak of one of John's nipples. John bit his lip viciously as a spark of pleasure rippled through his chest, down his stomach and straight to his cock. He did it again a bit harder, then closed his teeth around it gently and pulled. John whimpered as he watched, his pelvis bucking on its own accord, silently asking for friction as Sherlock worked his upper body. "Please," he murmured, feeling his cock leaking in his pants.

Sherlock dropped his hips, rolling his trouser-clothed cock against John's still boxer clad thighs, drawing a gasp from John's mouth. He licked another strip over John's other nipple, then made his way up his neck, breathing wet heat into his ear. "Better?" he murmured and John tossed his head, the sensation of Sherlock's lips against his sensitive ear throwing him into overdrive. He turned his head and caught those delicious lips in a searing kiss. His hands were grasping at Sherlock's waist, yanking him harder down against him, not getting nearly enough, begging Sherlock with his hands to give him more. Sherlock continued his slow rut, clearly intending to drive John mad.

John growled and slid his hand down Sherlock's stomach. He pulled open his belt, flicking the clasp of his trousers open and pushing them down with his pants, dragging his fingers over the taut muscles of his thighs as he moved toward his goal. John had begun to pride himself on his well he could get Sherlock's cock out of his trousers and he grinned when he heard a soft moan from Sherlock's lips over his neck. He glided his fingertips over the velvety skin of Sherlock's erection, reveling in the hitch in Sherlock's breath.

Cool fingers hooked around his wrist.

"Just wait," Sherlock whispered, then stripped John's boxers down, wrapping them around his thighs.

Cold air brushed over John's hips as Sherlock rocked back on his knees, then he was moving down John's chest again, licking and biting his skin. John's breath caught as Sherlock moved lower, dipping his tongue into John's naval. He bit softly at the skin below that, brushing soft kisses over the reddening area.

John closed his eyes as Sherlock traveled lower still and John's world faded to white as heat and warmth wrapped around the tip of his cock. John was sure he was sobbing incoherent things but what they were specifically, he had no idea. Those sensual lips gave a few hard sucks, then popped off and a strong tongue lapped at the sensitive glands on the underside of his shaft. John dragged his heavy head up to watch, immediately catching Sherlock's eye as that gorgeous creature swirled his tongue around the head, then took him back in his mouth. John was babbling, he was sure of it, his eyes widening as he watched his shaft disappear into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock kept his gaze locked as he lowered himself further down then engulfed the entire length of John, his nose brushing John's lower stomach.

"_Fuck_!" John cried, digging his hands into Sherlock's hair, doing his very best not to push or pull as Sherlock dragged his mouth back up, gave a strong swirl with his tongue, and sank right back down. John stopped breathing. "Sh-Sh-Sher-oh-g-god," John choked, slamming his head back against the pillow, trying to keep his vision clear as his eyes threatened to roll back in his head. John could hear how wrecked he sounded but there wasn't much he could do about it when Sherlock was deep throating his cock.

He felt the head of his erection hit the back of Sherlock's throat and he cried out, yanking on Sherlock's curls accidentally, panic and pleasure all coursing through him. There was no way he was going to last. "Oh f-fuck, Sherlock, I-I'm going-I can't-I-"

Sherlock fisted his cock and pulled his mouth off with a wet pop long enough to say "Come in my mouth," and then swallowed John down again.

John's body shook, barely able to keep himself from fucking Sherlock's face as warm pleasure pooled in his stomach, heating quickly, bubbling like hot lava until he was spouting hot come, pulsing in between those sexy bowed lips. He was sobbing Sherlock's name and doing his very best to hold himself in place so as not to suffocate him, but _fuck_, being held in that tight cavern of heat, feeling himself flood Sherlock's mouth, it was… a marking. He was _marking_ Sherlock. Sherlock was _letting_ himself be marked. By _John_.

Because Sherlock was fucking_ his_.

His fingers loosened as his body went slack on the bed, his orgasm slowing to a calming lull and then stilling. His breathing slowed and he blinked rapidly as his vision cleared, finally coming back down.

He opened his eyes to find Sherlock on his knees still between John's legs, fisting himself fast as he stared down at John.

John immediately sat up and went to take over the motion, planning to return the favor, when he felt Sherlock's other hand curve under his chin and tilt his face up. John bit his lip as he looked up into those beautiful eyes, half lidded with arousal and that perfect mouth, lips slightly parted. Sherlock Holmes touching himself was a gorgeous sight.

"Can I?" John asked softly and Sherlock shook his head.

"No condoms," he murmured.

John frowned. "But-"

"Hush," Sherlock whispered, placing his thumb over John's lips. "I'll explain later." He groaned, clearly coming up on his own release.

John nodded, pushing away his questions for now because Sherlock was about to come, and watching Sherlock come was one of his most favorite things in the world. So instead, he pulled his shirt all the way off, leaned back on his hands and whispered, "Come for me."

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly, doing their best to deduce John while under the duress of an impending orgasm and John nodded, reaching a hand up and tapping a finger over his own heart. "Right here," he whispered. He had no idea when he'd become so territorial and possessive but he was, and he wanted Sherlock to mark him as equally as he'd allowed himself to be by John. "Please," John found himself saying, still pointing to his chest. "Come. Come right here. Please."

He couldn't say if Sherlock was more turned on by the begging or the marking, but Sherlock's fingers tightened under his chin, his hand moving faster over himself, angling his hips just to the left of John's body and grunted softly as he came. Long, white, sticky ropes stuck to John's left pectoral muscle, and a bit landed on his shoulder, dripping down over his heart, singeing a trail of heat in its wake. John's eyes fluttered closed, feeling the warmth surround the area that was now owned by Sherlock Holmes and murmured "_Yes",_ convinced he could come again right now if asked to, because this feeling, the feeling of being owned, was apparently something he got off on.

Sherlock collapsed to the side of him and immediately rolled off the bed, hooking his trousers back in place. John barely noticed that he was gone, his eyes closed securely as he fell back on the bed, until a hot flannel was laid over his chest. John hummed in appreciation as Sherlock cleaned his skin.

"Why did you let me do that?" Sherlock asked, as he lay down next to John, gathering him close against his chest.

"Because you wouldn't let me suck you off," John teased, snuggling against him.

Sherlock sighed. "I didn't want to stop to find a condom."

That took a moment to process and then John sat up and stared down at Sherlock. "Why didn't you make me use a condom?! Oh god, Sherlock, I should have made you. Fuck, I shouldn't have done that." And for the first time since he'd woken up and his entire world wasn't focused down to the man he loved so madly, John took in his surroundings. "Where are we?"

They were definitely not in Sherlock's flat. They were not even in a room John had ever seen before. The room was… well, very Sherlock. It resembled his flat quite well, with papers scattered and tacked to walls, but it was more organized and cleaner like… like someone was taking care of this room. Something Sherlock obviously didn't do in his own space.

There was something familiar about it and something… nice. Like someone who lived here was loved and cared for.

The other thing John noticed was that it was fucking huge.

"Sherlock?" He turned back to find a mischievous grin playing on Sherlock's lips and John narrowed his eyes.

"You'll probably want to shower and get ready," Sherlock smirked as he rolled off the bed. "Clean clothes are on the dresser and the loo is just through there. Or did you want to run? I know you run on Saturday mornings. I can call for the maid to bring you up some running clothes. Oh, but you don't know the area well. I could get you a map-"

"_Sherlock,"_ John interrupted sharply. "_Where_ _are we_?" He suddenly felt very exposed and slightly frightened as he realized he was almost completely starkers, save for his boxers still sitting just below his hips, having just had an incredible orgasm in a place he'd never seen before. He grabbed the waistband of his pants and yanked them back up to their proper place.

Sherlock's smile widened. "Come on. Up you go. We've got things to do!" Sherlock bounded off the bed, bouncing slightly as he landed on the balls his feet and took off.

And that's when John caught it. His sleepy, sex-filled brain took its time waking up and catching on but now that it had, John froze. The look in Sherlock's eyes was the one he always got when there was a case. The excited, almost child-like spark that played on his features was evident now that John was fully awake.

"Hey, wait a sec-"

"You'll want to get ready, John," Sherlock smirked with a wink. Then he darted from the room.

John stared at the door for a long moment, trying to process what just happened. He ran a hand through his hair and rubbed his eyes, feeling quite out of sorts.

Then, after a moment of consideration, resigned himself to doing what Sherlock asked and, well, started getting ready. For what exactly, he had no idea.

He glanced at the dresser where a navy jumper sat neatly folded on top of a plaid button down, cradled by a pair of smartly dark jeans. They were clothes he'd never seen before. Clothes that were obviously brand new and somehow matched his style perfectly only far more posh then he could ever afford.

The clothes lingered within his thoughts as he walked into the adjoining loo, which was equally as ridiculously large as the bedroom. He wondered off-handedly if maybe they were at a nice hotel or a bed and breakfast, although why didn't remember them getting here was still bizarre.

He washed quickly, knowing he would be finding out exactly where he was once he got out of the shower, and dressed in his apparently new clothes. He shivered at the soft touch of the jumper under his fingers and couldn't help but glance at the tag.

Cashmere.

He never knew he could be aroused by a piece of clothing but... damn it was soft.

He pulled it gingerly over his head, straightening the cuffs of the button down underneath it and rolled the sleeves up to his elbows. He gave himself a once over in the mirror, noting his still damp hair and shrugged. He didn't have time to dry it. He was far too anxious.

He pulled open the door and glanced back and forth, praying he'd catch sight of Sherlock. Instead, he found himself standing in the middle of a long hallway. He narrowed his eyes and darted back into the room for his phone to call Sherlock just as it buzzed on the nightstand.

**Take a right out of the room, then the first left, down the stairs and straight ahead. -SH**

John glared at his phone but took off in the path he'd been directed, trying not to be overwhelmed by the stoic but precious decor, dripping with class and elegance. Expensive-looking artifacts and furniture were placed tastefully along the lengthy hallway, as though one may need to take a rest halfway through, have a seat and admire the grandness of it all.

John quietly giggled at that though as he rounded toward the staircase Sherlock had mentioned.

"And what, exactly, is so amusing?" Sherlock's baritone met him as he came to the bottom of the staircase and the man himself stepped out, staring down at the mobile in his hand.

"Don't worry about it," John giggled. Sherlock began to look up at him with a raised eyebrow but his face fell immediately as he took in John's appearance.

John stared back in bewilderment. "What?" he asked, feeling an urge to wrap his arms around himself to cover up.

Sherlock's cool eyes bore into him, scanning all over his body and was suddenly stalking toward John, crowding him back against a wall. "John," he murmured. "You...you look-"

He was a bit thrown by the turn of events as he stared up into almost black eyes, Sherlock's pupils blown wide, eyelids hanging heavy and John's breath caught. "Sher-" he attempted, but the name was cut off as Sherlock crushed his mouth to John's, pressing him back against the wall.

John wasn't quick enough to catch the surprised noise he made that promptly turned into something of a groan as Sherlock slid a knee between his thighs and pushed his body flush against John's. He could already feel his hands fisting in Sherlock's shirt, forgetting all his questions and concerns and worries about where the hell he was and deciding he didn't give a toss. Because if he was with Sherlock, then truthfully, it didn't matter. He'd follow this man to the pits of hell with a smile on his face if it would keep them together.

He growled and pushed Sherlock's mouth open, sliding his tongue inside, and Sherlock responded with two wet kisses before trailing his lips along John's jaw to his neck.

"So, dressing me turns you on then?" John gasped. He was learning all sorts of things this morning about their sex life and he couldn't have been more pleased.

Sherlock didn't respond. Instead, he latched his lips to John's neck and sucked. John's fingers tightened in his shirt, biting back a moan. Another marking was fine by him.

"Mm," Sherlock murmured as he pulled back after a moment to look at his handy work. "You're just a little bit naughty, aren't you Mr. Watson?" He kissed the mark he'd just created.

John hummed. "Only for you, Mr. Holmes," he replied in the sauciest tone he could muster at nine o'clock in the morning.

Sherlock laughed, then slid his hand down into John's. "Come on. Breakfast is waiting."

John, still dazed, did recall that he still didn't have a clue where they were. He still couldn't quite bring himself to care as Sherlock turned, still grasping his hand, and John reached out and pinched his arsecheek. The indignant squeal Sherlock let out was so worth it, John burst out laughing. Sherlock returned the favor with a pat on the rear to get John going, and they both dissolved into giggles, grabbing at each other and sneaking kisses as they made their way down the short hall.

If John would have known that waking up with Sherlock Holmes would make him this giddy, he would have started doing it a long time ago. Sherlock was still staring down at John as they entered what was obviously the kitchen, cheeks now tinted a delicious pink that John wanted to lick when Sherlock, without breaking eye contact said "Mummy. I'd like you to meet John Watson."

John furrowed his brow in confusion. Then, suddenly realizing exactly what was happening, slowly turned his head to find a short, thin, rather nice-looking woman beaming at him from where she was leaned against the sink, coffee mug holding steady between her hands. Her hair lay down her shoulders, very subtly curled, obviously natural but set in a way so as not to be prominent. Her smile sat below familiar eyes, looking gray at first look, but as her gaze darted over him, they seemed to change color, darkening to a blue, then back again to a nicer green.

Like Sherlock's.

Whom he was just now forming a plan on how he would be murdering later that day, slowly, in a methodically painful manner.

"Hello John," she grinned at the shocked face he knew he was sporting. "I'm Victoria, Sherlock's mother."

John choked. Actually choked, sputtering out what he hoped sounded like an apology, scurrying over to her and sticking out his hand. "H-hi Mrs. Holmes, it's a pleasure to meet you, really," he blurted, because even if this were the most horrific moment of his life, meeting Mrs. Holmes after not only sleeping in her house _before_ he met her, but then having the audacity to get off with and then snog the hell out of her son in the hallway, allow him to leave a rather prominent love bite on his neck and then show up disheveled in her kitchen apparently expecting breakfast, John Watson had some bloody manners. "You have a beautiful home," he babbled, "and I am so sorry I was-ah-sleeping when I...arrived."

Yeah. Because that didn't sound fucking stupid at all.

And this was Sherlock's mother. He was certain she would be prepared with some sharp, biting remark that was so cleverly underhanded he'd have to do a double-take as to if he should be offended, like Sherlock always seemed to do.

Instead, what John received was a snort and then a...hug. A warm, inviting, kind, motherly hug. Mrs. Holmes wrapped her arms around his shoulders and kissed his cheek, giving him the nicest of squeezes. "John, it is so very nice to finally make your acquaintance. And please, call me Victoria. Sherlock has been keeping you hidden from us so I truly don't care in what way you showed up to my house, as long as you did. Would you like eggs? Or toast? I could make bacon and sausage as well, although that may take a bit longer and I'm sure you're hungry seeing as you went to sleep before supper last night."

John blinked, dazedly trying to find a proper response to what seemed like a multitude of topics.

"He'll have eggs," Sherlock answered.

"I'm certain John can make his breakfast decision on his own, Sherlock," Victoria chided, but she was already pulling out the carton of eggs.

John was mildly annoyed that Sherlock had been correct on what John had wanted, seeing as he put him in such an uncomfortable situation, but said "Eggs sound great, thank you" instead.

"Did someone say eggs?" A tall, ginger-and-gray-haired man stepped through the doors looking... well looking exactly like Mycroft from what John could remember. Only older with prominent lines along his face, but emanating a much brighter light then Mycroft had in that car all those weeks ago.

"William!" Victoria sniped sharply. "Say good morning to Sherlock's guest before you start concerning yourself with your stomach."

William looked properly reprimanded, searching the kitchen with much darker eyes then Victoria's, finally landing on John. And grinning so pleasantly, John felt himself moving toward him before he'd consciously made the decision to do so. "John Watson, I presume!" he said cheerfully, meeting John's hand with a firm shake. "Did you sleep well?"

John was certain his face was an awful shade of burgundy by now, embarrassment seeping out of his pours. "Yes, sir, I did. Thank you for asking."

William beamed at him, then turned to Sherlock, marched right over and gave him the nicest hug a father could give his son. And to John's shock and awe, Sherlock hugged him right back. Like this was normal. Familiar. Like they were a family full of hugging and loving characters.

He recalled something Sherlock said about not having personal relationships of any kind and suddenly had the urge to laugh. Sherlock with his serious face and stiff posture and giant vocabulary, who claimed he couldn't provide a partner with everything they needed, had somehow secretly harbored this kind, happy family on the opposite side of London, that embraced and kissed and beamed and loved and it was all so absurd to John that he found himself grinning broadly, enjoying watching Sherlock accept affection from someone.

Truth be told, John always sort of assumed that Sherlock just kind of... put up with his touches. John knew he was overly affectionate, but in all honesty, he didn't want to deny himself his desires to keep a hand on Sherlock at all times. But he'd always guessed that Sherlock probably just tolerated this from John because... well because he cared about him and didn't want to hurt his feelings.

Now watching the exchange between him and his father, John warmed all over at the thought that maybe Sherlock liked to cuddle and walk hand in hand just as much as John did. And that feeling was very nice.

"John, why don't you have a seat at the table just there in the dining room? Sherlock will set the table," Victoria said cheerfully from the stove.

"Oh, I can help with that," John said, really not wanting to go sit alone in this giant house while this wonderful little family puttered around the kitchen preparing _his_ breakfast.

"Oh, excellent, yes, you do it John. That means I don't have to," Sherlock said happily.

"Nice try," Victoria said without even raising her head from the egg pan. "You know where the plates are."

To John's astonishment, Sherlock made a small annoyed sound but went to the designated cabinet and pulled out five plates.

Five plates? There were only four of them.

"Uh, there is only-"

"Good to see you're awake, John," a cool voice spoke from behind him and the hairs on John's neck prickled. "We weren't certain if Sherlock may have drugged you or not, and therefore had no idea when you'd be up."

"Oh please. I concocted a sleeping cocktail when I was nine, and gathered all the data I needed then. Why would I repeat an experiment?" Sherlock said this as he walked into the dining room.

"Good to see you, Mycroft," John said meekly, then hastily followed Sherlock into the dining room.

"_Sherlock_," he hissed as the door to the kitchen closed behind them.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock replied, not turning from his hunched position over the table as he distributed the plates.

"What the _fuck_?" was the best thing John could come up with after he couldn't settle on one of the thousand questions he had.

"Such language," Sherlock teased, still not looking at him. "I can't believe you kiss me with that mouth."

"Shut up," John whispered. "Why didn't you tell me you were taking me to meet your _family_?"

"Because Sherlock is quite self-centered," Mycroft replied to the question that wasn't directed at him as the rest of the Holmes family paraded into the dining room, Victoria and William bringing up the rear with food balanced in their hands.

"None of that, Myc," Victoria said casually behind him.

William nodded in agreement. "Yes, be nice to your brother in front of his guest."

Mycroft gave a resigned sigh and slid into a chair at the table.

Sherlock nudged John into the chair next to Mycroft's and John shot him a panicked look.

"Well, _I _certainly don't want to sit next to him," Sherlock replied as he sat in the seat next to John's effectively sandwiching him in between the two brothers.

"Oh, no reason to be frightened of Myc, dear," Victoria flapped her hand toward John as she reached for a plate of eggs to pass in his direction. "Did he pull the whole cloak and daggers thing on you? He's really harmless."

"I have never owned a cloak nor a dagger, mummy," Mycroft replied casually.

"He's all bark and no bite," Victoria continued as though Mycroft hadn't spoken. "I'm sure you can understand though, what with having an older sister and all."

"Well, Harry's a bit-" John cut himself off as he just now was realizing the fact that Harry bloody Watson was drunkenly asleep in his flat all alone. His stomach rolled at the reminder.

Sherlock's hand was on his knee under the table, squeezing. "She's fine, John."

He turned sharply to him. "I'm not worried about her, Sherlock," John made a feeble attempt to whisper, as if three other Holmeses weren't seated around the table only inches from him. He ran a hand through his hair. "What if Mike comes back to the flat? What if she's still there when I get home?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Mike was at Link's flat all night. Besides, Harriet has already been escorted back to where she came from."

Mycroft cleared his throat.

John frowned. "Escorted? By who?"

Sherlock smirked. "Don't worry about it."

"Sherlock..." John warned.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Sometimes, Mycroft isn't entirely useless."

"I'm touched by that, brother dear," Mycroft responded.

John's eyes widened as he turned to the other Holmes brother. "What?"

Sherlock huffed and closed his eyes as though John were trying to torture him. "Mycroft has...access."

"To what?"

"Everything," Sherlock said simply.

John raised his eyebrows. "Everything," he repeated dubiously.

"Dramatics, Sherlock," Mycroft replied, sounding rather bored by the entire conversation.

"Oh yes," Sherlock continued, ignoring his brother. "CCTV cameras all over London, personnel to run any errand he requests, transportation anywhere at the drop of a hat. Everything."

John looked incredulously at Sherlock. "Seriously. What, is he a spy or something?" He asked sarcastically.

He turned to look at Mycroft as Sherlock snorted behind him.

"Oh god no, the leg work for a spy would probably put Mycroft into a diabetic coma. No, that's far to pedestrian for him."

"So what do you do then?" John asked, feeling rude for talking about someone sitting right next to them.

Mycroft let out a long-suffering sigh. "I hold a very minor position in the British government."

"He_ is_ the British Government," Sherlock amended.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Sherlock likes to…exaggerate."

"Why are you even here?" Sherlock demanded. "Mummy stopped making pastries when you started packing on the stones."

"So, John," Victoria interrupted. "I understand you're studying medicine?"

John was so thrown by the topic change, he took a beat to sort out what had just happened. Did everything move at the speed of light in the Holmes family? He turned quickly to Sherlock and murmured "Harry is gone?" just for his own clarification.

Sherlock nodded.

John turned back to Victoria. "Yes ma'am. I'm planning on being a doctor."

"Oh good!" Victoria nodded, looking very pleased. "You'll be an excellent doctor, I'm sure."

John blushed. "I certainly hope so."

"I'm certain of it." She spoke with such surety and confidence that John could only nod. William was flanking her to the left, nodding as though every word she spoke was truth and smiling happily.

John was sort of already in love with all of them. Even Mycroft, who seemed to flicker small smiles at him occasionally.

"Are you quite finished? We have things to do," Sherlock was poking his side a short while later as John was deep in discussion with Victoria about his course schedule.

"You'd better go, dear," Victoria said, nodding to Sherlock. "Otherwise you may end up on the receiving end of his next experiment."

"That was one time!" Sherlock cried, indignantly. "And it was only a coincidence that you were late to pick me up from school. I'd already switched the salt for the sugar."

John turned and raised an eyebrow. "The old salt and sugar swap? Not very inventive. I expected more from you, Sherlock Holmes."

"Well, I was five, dreadfully bored with little access to explosives, so you'll forgive me for finding entertainment in shock value, rather then something actually scientific."

John grinned. "Should we help clear the table?"

"Absolutely not!" Victoria said with a wave of her hand. "Go on. Myc will help me."

"'Mycroft' is the name you gave me, if you could possibly struggle all the way to the end," Mycroft responded airily.

John stifled a snort because as hard as the elder Holmes attempted to seem serious and intense, his off-handed remarks were rather funny.

The scowl he received from Sherlock warned him not to say this out loud.

"Thank you so much for the eggs, Mrs. Holmes," he said instead.

"Of course! You're welcome any time. We'll talk later, yes? As I understand it, you'll be here for the weekend?"

For some reason, this didn't even come as a shock to John. He shrugged as though to say _"Apparently I do whatever Sherlock decides I do'_.

Victoria laughed. "Very well. See you in a bit. Oh, and it's Victoria, not Mrs. Holmes." She winked at him and he grinned before being pulled back down the hallway by Sherlock.

"I really feel like I should be angry with you for so many reasons, I can barely remember them all," John said as they wandered down a new corridor.

Sherlock smirked. "But?"

John sighed. "But that was lovely. Meeting and having breakfast with your family and I don't feel the least bit angry any longer..." John suddenly pinned him with narrowed eyes in realization. "And of course, you anticipated that, so you essentially did whatever you pleased this morning because you knew your family would put me in a good mood?"

Sherlock tried to give a sheepish grin as though he were a naughty child getting caught in a lie, but the look came off looking smugger then anything else and John had to laugh and then kiss that face because really, this was absurd. Waking up in a strange house only to receive his first blowjob from the man he loved, then to find out he was in said man's family home and his parents were only a short distance away as he was moaning and writhing around in bed with their son. Then to meet said parents and find out they were delightful people.

Really, he shouldn't be that surprised. This was just par for the course for a day in the life with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock kissed John's forehead then jerked his head to the side. "Come on. I want to show you something."

John followed obediently down another corridor and down a set of stairs. Then down another set of narrow steps. Then down another corridor.

"You didn't bring me down here to murder me, did you?" John teased, as they descended further into the basement.

Sherlock snorted. "Absolutely not. How would that be an intelligent decision on my part? We're in a secluded area, no easy way for me to dispose of your body, and if I attempted to do so my parents, who are very morale people, would observe this and most likely turn me in. Although, Mycroft could probably keep me from spending my life in prison, if he so wished, but truthfully I'd probably prefer prison to a life outside in the real world without you in it."

John blinked. "That was...oddly romantic."

"I wonder sometimes if that is the definition of our relationship. Oddly romantic."

John grinned. "Most definitely. And I wouldn't have it any other way."

Sherlock's face grew a bit intense as they approached a door at the end of the hallway. "You ready?"

John raised his eyebrows and smiled. "Ready as I'll ever be."

Sherlock tried to return his smile but it didn't quite reach his eyes as he threw open the door to what was very obviously a laboratory. John wasn't surprised in the least and he grinned as he walked inside, taking in the expensive equipment lining the black tabletops and beakers scattered all over the counters.

"Yeah, it kind of figures you would have a state of the art lab in your family home," John chuckled as he turned to find Sherlock looking rather serious. John's smile dropped immediately. "Sorry," he murmured. "It's very impressive."

Sherlock's forehead crinkled in confusion for a moment, then he sighed. "Oh, I know it's impressive," he said dismissively. "That's not why I brought you down here." He sounded almost...resigned.

John frowned. "Okay?"

"This is one of my very favorite places on this earth," Sherlock almost whispered as he scanned his eyes around the room. "This whole house and those who occupy it are ...very important to me."

John nodded. He watched him walk further into the room, hands clasped tightly behind his back. He did another scan over the area as though to check everything was in place, then turned back to John.

"I wanted to share all this with you," Sherlock murmured. "Before... before you make a decision."

"Sherlock," John said softly. "I hope you realize-"

"I do. I do realize what you think your decision is. But before you commit yourself to a relationship with me fully, there are things you need to know. And I'd like to tell you them in here."

John could understand that. Somewhere where he was comfortable. His own turf so to speak. He nodded and sat in one of the stools that lined the tables. This was it then. John already made up his mind. He knew about the drugs. Mycroft had hinted not so subtly at Sherlock's previous recreational use back in high school before he went to university. John didn't care. It was in the past. But he would give Sherlock the respect of telling him himself.

What he wasn't prepared for was the fact that Mycroft didn't tell him the entire truth of the matter at all.

"I started experimenting with cocaine at age thirteen," Sherlock began, and John sat very still, giving Sherlock his full attention. "I found that my mind ran at a much faster pace then most others, and I became bored very easily. Most of the time, I felt as though I were spinning out of control, my thoughts a jumbled mix of so many different topics. I couldn't focus, I couldn't think properly. Most people found that I was rude and arrogant and couldn't be arsed to care about their feelings. But the truth was I had so many other things going on in my head, I didn't have time to process their emotions. I couldn't care because I was distracted. Cocaine made me...sharper. I was able to focus better, pay attention to things easier. I didn't feel out of control. I felt very much in control. And it was an…addictive feeling to say the least."

John blew out a breath, appreciating the explanation. It hurt all the same to think of Sherlock like that, so frustrated inside his own head that he turned to substance abuse, but the way he explained it, John sort of understood. "Thank you for telling me," he said, offering a small smile to let Sherlock know it wasn't deterring him from wanting to spend time with him.

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment and then turned his back.

"When I was sixteen, I overdosed on a concoction of cocaine and heroin that I mixed myself. I'd been using so heavily that the effects started to wear off faster and I found I needed something stronger. When that stopped working, I decided to end my life."

John blinked. He stared at Sherlock's fitted shirt-clad back for a long moment, attempting to process what he'd just heard. He felt frozen, unable to give into one emotion as they all tore at him, clawing him in their direction. The pain was so great, John eventually went numb all over because it was clearly just easier. Because he couldn't think. Because if he thought, he would surely lose it entirely.

And he knew he couldn't lose it now. He had to be strong. Strong for Sherlock. Sherlock, who was statuesque in front of him, refusing to turn around or move or even breath.

"Mycroft found me," Sherlock continued, his voice sounding small and unsure. "I was taken in an ambulance and had to be resuscitated several times. I was legally dead for two minutes. But they were able to save me in the end. Obviously."

John's eyes were burning. He couldn't move. He couldn't… he couldn't_ think_.

Sherlock. _His_ Sherlock. Had been dead. Actually, truly dead. Before he'd even had a chance to know him. Had almost been taken away from him entirely before they even met. Before they even got to know each other.

Before they even fell in love.

And just like that, John's feet were carrying him toward Sherlock, wrapping fingers around his wrist and turning him around. Sherlock turned willingly, eyes closed, lips pursed as though waiting for something horrible to happen.

"Sherlock," John whispered, tugging on his wrist. "Sherlock look at me."

Sherlock's eyes opened slowly.

And John's heart all but shattered in his chest.

Those gorgeous eyes, the ones that made John's breath catch, the ones that changed colors in that ethereal way that they did, the ones that first drew John to this beautiful creature known at Sherlock Holmes, were brimming with miserable tears, staring fixedly on a point behind John's head.

"Sherlock," John tried to demand, but the word came out breathless and broken and Sherlock closed his eyes again.

"Mycroft found Sergeant Lestrade after that," Sherlock continued. "He struck up some deal with him to allow me to assist in solving crimes. Something to distract me. And it worked. Most of them were petty, stupid, easily solvable but they passed the time and helped me focus. Lestrade would send me weekly packets of information and files, thing of that sort. He'd sneak me into crime scenes after hours if he were really stuck. Only recently has he allowed me to come to crime scenes while the other officers are still there."

For the first time, John really comprehended how frighteningly intelligent Sherlock truly was. How intricate and quick and large his brain must truly be. He couldn't worry about things that didn't matter to or interest him. That's why solving crimes helped the chaos, because it was interesting. That's why he was so good to John, because John mattered to him. That's why no one had gotten close to him before. They weren't interesting enough for Sherlock and they didn't matter to him. John wondered if Sherlock even realized any of this. In some ways, it made sense to John. "Sherlock," he tried again.

"I did it on purpose, John," Sherlock whispered, opening his eyes to focus on the wall again. "I didn't want to live anymore. Even after I got clean, I still wondered why I survived. Why I shouldn't turn back around and try again."

He breathed a shaky exhale through a small moue of trembling lips. "And then I met you," he murmured. "And now it hurts more to think I almost missed out on knowing you."

Tears rolled down his face and John placed his palms on Sherlock's cheeks, cradling his face in his hands. "Look at me," he whispered.

Those sharp eyes darted to meet his and then Sherlock was speaking rapidly. "We will always need to use condoms when we have sex. You don't need to, I know I'm your first and I know you've never used needles. I can't say the same for myself, so condoms will be a must. Don't assume I'm better now. I'm not. I will forever be an addict. I still have cravings, I still go mad with boredom. I'm trying, John, I'm trying to be better for you, to be the best for you and I don't know if it will last, I don't know if I'll be enough. I don't know if what I can promise, I don't know if-"

"Why did you bring me here?" John interrupted.

Sherlock looked startled. "I-I told you-"

"No. I mean why did you bring me to meet your family?"

Sherlock frowned. "I wanted to share them with you."

"And why is that not boring to you? Why is talking to me and cuddling me and meeting my silly friends not boring to you?"

Sherlock opened his mouth but nothing came out as he frowned, then closed it again, seeming so confused that John didn't want to leave him hanging.

"You can't focus your mind on things you don't care about," John said softly. "And you care about me. So I think we'll be alright."

Sherlock blinked. "I-" he started, then his face grew frightened. "I'm not right, John. I'm not-Christ, I told you in the beginning I've never even wanted a relationship. I didn't. Not until you. What kind of person prefers to be alone? What kind of person chooses loneliness?"

"The kind who hadn't met anyone worth spending time with yet," John responded calmly.

Sherlock shook his head. "No. No, I'm not normal. I tried to kill myself, for god's sake and you, you're wonderful, John, and everyone likes you and you deserve the b-"

"I love you," John said solidly. It wasn't something that slipped out of his mouth but it wasn't something he had to contemplate. He loved Sherlock. It was fact.

Sherlock froze, eyes locked on John and he took that as a note to continue. "I love you, Sherlock. I don't know if you've noticed but I'm a little bit damaged too. I'm needy and sensitive and overly touchy and all the things you attempt to make me feel a little bit less bad about. You take care of me. And I love you. And I want to take care of you, too. Let me take care of you, too."

Sherlock's fingers came up to wrap around John's forearms. "John," he whispered. "I...you don't have to... it's your decision-"

"I made up my mind a long time ago, Sherlock. This 'decision' you keep bringing up has been for your benefit only. I have never been 'making a decision.' I had already made my decision. I'm fairly certain my mind made itself up the night I met you. So we can stop it with the decision conversation because it's done."

"John-"

"I love you."

"John, please-"

"I love you, Sherlock."

"John," Sherlock tried again but he was smiling softly now, a flicker of something sparking in his eyes every time John said it. He nuzzled quietly into John's hands.

John watched this, his heart filling with so much love for this man it ached. "Believe me," he whispered. "Please believe me when I say I love you."

Sherlock took a long moment to search John's eyes, search his face and absently rubbed his arms. "John," he whispered, looking almost pleadingly into John's eyes.

"I know." John would leave it be for now. Sherlock was obviously overwhelmed. He didn't need him to say it right now. He would soon, but not now. He just needed Sherlock to know that John would be saying it. As often as possible. He pulled Sherlock down, pressing their foreheads together. "I know. I love you."

"You keep saying that," Sherlock murmured, although he sounded less afraid.

"And I'll keep saying it until you believe me. Because my boyfriend should know that I love him."

Sherlock pulled back slightly to suddenly stare at John. "Boyfriend?" he said, almost confused.

John resisted the urge to laugh. "No good? How about partner?"

Sherlock looked down, seeming deep in thought as his eyes skittered across the floor. His lips were moving as though making a decision and John stayed quiet, allowing him to take his time.

"Either is fine, I think," Sherlock said softly. "They are interchangeable, yes?"

John snorted. "Does it matter? I can call you whatever you'd like, as long as you know that you are mine and I am yours."

Sherlock looked back seriously. "I've never been or had a...boyfriend before."

"Good," John nodded. "No random exes popping up, then. I'm territorial and definitely the jealous type."

Sherlock snorted. "Yes, I did notice that about you."

John smiled. "And it's...alright?"

Sherlock grinned for the first time since they started this conversation. "It's more then alright," he said softly. He laid a chaste kiss on John's lips and whispered, "It's perfect."

****I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it. Ooooh my goodness so much FLUFF I could hardly stand it even as I was writing it! SO I think this story may be coming to a close shortly. Maybe a couple more chapters then it'll be finished up. Because I'm **_**considering**_** turning it in to a series… but nothing has been decided. I'm in love with Sherlock and John at this age and I can't bring myself to say goodbye quite yet…I'll keep you posted as I continue but yes, a series is currently a possibility…. ****


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